White Noise
by AdmiralCats
Summary: (Bad Company: Book 2) A prominent USCM general is found dead in a banquet hall just days before Christmas. While his entire command is left shocked, no one is more hurt than Corporal Hicks, who has known the general since before boot camp. This loss strikes him hard, and recovering becomes a tough struggle that will shape his role as a leader for years to come.
1. Chapter 1

A trail of cigarette smoke followed Hicks as he walked around the empty house, looking down at a message sent by General Paulson. " _I really hate to interrupt your well-earned holiday leave, but, this came as a minor surprise to me as well. A good number of us have been invited to a Christmas Eve brunch in Paris, and I believe there are some events lasting through New Year's. Thought it might give us a chance to talk about something other than work._ "

It wasn't that hard of a decision to make. Over the course of the last two days since receiving the message, Hicks booked his flight to Paris, and packed what he needed, which wasn't much.

Deep down, he wasn't looking forward for his break to end. It meant going back to his unit, still patiently waiting for his transfer notice to come through. At least his request had been accepted, but God only knows how long it would be before someone came to base saying a different unit was ready for a new corporal.

There was something deeply wrong with the authority structure of his current unit. Sergeant Trevors had an overall poor grasp on his people, oftentimes leaving Hicks in charge while Trevors rushed into his office to read from a manual. This type of leadership had led several of the guys to resent Trevors, and Hicks in the process. What pushed Hicks to seek a transfer was a young private named Jenzi, who was frequently heard complaining about how things were run. His complaints weren't invalid, but he tended to make threats as well.

After two years, Hicks decided that enough was enough. He wanted out. He wanted to be part of a more functional unit.

It was three in the morning when Hicks got up to make the final preparations for his flight out of the states. It was mid-December, and pitch-black. For southern Alabama, it was pretty cold. He groped around for the tiny chain on the lamp on his bedside table, and blinked when it was turned on. His travel itinerary was on the table, along with his military documentation, and wallet. His duffel bag was in front of the closet, which had nothing but a few pairs of jeans hanging in it. There were some items on the closet shelf he kept for memory, and he probably wouldn't see them for a few months, maybe even years.

The last thing he did before leaving the room was zip up the black jacket bearing the USCM emblem on his left shoulder. For a moment, he paused, a sudden feeling of regret taking root in his chest.

Home was incredibly lonely at times. He had bought the house not that long ago, and quickly found that living alone wasn't always a good thing. However, it was nice whenever he was on leave. Partly, Hicks wanted that balance between being completely alone and being so surrounded by people that his thoughts were never in a row.

Today, something deep down was telling him that it would be better to just stay home. Stay home, and do nothing. But, he made a promise to Paulson, he already booked his flight and hotel room. He had to get out the door and get to the airport.

Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, Hicks made some last-minute checks around the house before leaving. Everything was turned off. Nothing would spontaneously catch on fire while he was away. There was no food in the fridge. Inside and outside, it would look like no one was living there.

 _It'd still be nice to just cancel and stay home. I feel like I need more alone-time. Maybe my transfer would come through and I'd finally get a notice about my new unit. That'd be nice._ Hicks closed the front door, locked it, and sighed before putting the keys in his pockets. The last look he got of the house was as he pulled out of the driveway in his truck, driving down the long, dead-end road out to the main street.

It was too early in the morning for other cars to be out on the road. The garbage truck was out, a few insomniacs were sitting out on their porches. It was nice and quiet.

The highway to the airport wasn't. After merging with traffic, Hicks turned on the radio. He had a good thirty minutes before reaching the airport in Mobile. Some stations were already playing 24/7 Christmas music. After another round of "Frosty the Snowman" ended, a guy began reading off the daily weather report.

"Clear and cold today. High'll be around forty-five. Tonight looks like it'll be colder, around twenty or so. Good time to get the fireplace and a bowl of hot soup going."

 _I won't be here tonight. I'll be on a plane to Europe._ Hicks sighed as the report was finished, and a lady started talking about traffic. He nodded a little as the woman said that traffic looked good, especially near the airport. The early, early morning show began. Just a couple of guys talking about events going on in the Mobile area, all of which Hicks wouldn't be around for.

He changed the station when that got boring. Miraculously, he flipped to a station not playing Christmas music. Instead, they were playing old and new country music. He happened to land on a song he had heard when he was younger, around the time he entered his senior year of high school, around the time he made his decision to join the Marines. It was a song he usually equated with the late afternoon, rather than the ass-crack of dawn, but he still whispered along with the lyrics, his mind wandering to that late September not that long ago.

Somehow, those memories made him feel better about choosing to go to Europe. After all, he met General Paulson (who was then a colonel) while he was in the recruiting program. He could distinctly remember Paulson shaking his hand and saying, "You have all the looks of someone who is going to make a wonderful life for himself here. You might not think it now, but . . . I can see a leader behind your eyes."

Hicks definitely didn't think he was a leader at the time. He knew how to follow directions, but he didn't think he could ever create directions. The majority of his time was spent following somebody else's directions, whether it be his parents or teachers or a booklet or computer program. Yet, Paulson felt like Hicks had the potential to lead.

It was still very dark when Hicks arrived at the airport. After parking in a long-term lot, he took his duffel bag out of the back, and walked inside, knowing it would be quite some time before he'd ever see his vehicle again. He pulled his itinerary out of his pocket, and waited in a short line to use an electronic terminal. He punched in his information, and headed right to security after the machine spat out his ticket.

At the security station, Hicks removed his boots, belt, and jacket, and placed those in a big plastic bin alongside his duffel bag, which were promptly shoved through the X-ray machine. While that went on, he was ordered to step inside a metal detector. All that lasted about two minutes.

"Good to go. Enjoy your flight." A gloved man handed back Hicks's bag, letting him step aside to put his boots back on.

 _I still got four hours till my flight._ Hicks walked into the central part of the airport, with all the shops and restaurants. He slung his bag over his shoulder, curious as to what to do first. It was too early for breakfast, but he made a mental note of where to go when he was ready.

Out of curiosity, he decided to head up to a room designated for service members. Just about every airport had one, and he remembered waiting in one for his flight out to boot camp. He walked up a spiral staircase to a floor full of tiny entertainment shops, heading past them until he came to a door in a corner, with a sign that read "USO" above it.

After showing his active duty card to the two ladies at the desk, Hicks turned to find a place to sit in the room. There were mainly fresh recruits, all waiting to ship out to boot camp. Hicks grinned a little. "I was in your place once," he said, sitting in a chair next to the kitchenette.

A few of the recruits looked at him. "Is it true you get a shot in the butt?" someone asked.

 _Of course that's the first question they ask._ "Yeah, it's true. It's a penicillin shot. If you don't massage your ass afterward, you'll get a big lump that doesn't go away for a week or so."

"How long you been in?"

"Few years. Best advice I got for boot camp is keep your head up and your mouth shut. Try not to take anything the damn instructor says personally."

"They yell at you all day?"

"If you piss 'em off, yeah. They'll say a lot of things that'll scare the crap outta you, but, know this; boot camp is a tiny fraction of what your career in the USCM is gonna be. When you leave the gates after graduation, that's over. Their goal is to mold you into a better person, teach you how to fend for yourself physically and mentally, as well as make you a team player. If they tell you that they're gonna change you, that's generally what they mean. They just don't make it sound that way. It took me awhile to figure that out."

The recruits were silent for a minute, but they all eventually asked questions. Hicks answered them as best he could, and killed almost an hour doing so. He glanced at his watch, and got up to leave, figuring he needed to find his gate, and plan out the next three hours. _This is gonna get boring real fast._

"Hey, are you Corporal Hicks?"

Hicks turned around to see a young woman with close-cropped, dark blonde hair leaving the USO room, carrying her duffel bag. "Yes, I am. And you are?"

"Private Paige Carlisle. I was on the other side of the room, on the couch. You did an OK job talking to all those recruits. Told them what they were in for without going into too much detail."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want them jumping ship and I'd get in trouble for it. Who's your sergeant?"

"Sergeant McHale. He knows Trevors, says a lot of good things about you despite the situation with your unit."

"Heard about that, huh. Yeah, I've been working on getting a transfer out." Hicks looked at Carlisle's bag. "Where're you headed?"

"Paris. Christmas brunch with some friends. You?"

"Actually, Paris as well. General Paulson invited me to that same brunch."

"Well, that's a strange coincidence for sure. I guess . . . we can keep each other company?"

"I have no problem with that. Did you find your gate?"

"Yeah. It's gate D-five. I'll walk you down there." Carlisle walked ahead of Hicks, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at him. "Mind if I ask you a couple questions?"

"Go ahead."

"What exactly . . . has been going on with your unit?"

"Poor leadership. Poor behavior from subordinates. General Paulson and Colonel Russell have been working to get things under control. So far, their best idea has been to disband it and send the guys out to other squadrons, get some mental health professionals involved. Sergeant Trevors is supposedly gonna get sent to a six-week training class to get himself straightened out."

"How did this all happen?"

"Not really sure. Trevors . . . just doesn't know how to be a fluid leader. He reads from the manual for literally everything, because he's so scared of screwing up. I've really tried to convince him to adopt his own style, and it hasn't been working out. The guys below us are mad, they're upset, and I understand, but they're not taking it the right way. One of them has been pretty pissed, and he's threatened me and Trevors on more than one occasion, so, I'm hoping something is done soon. A lot of them just need help, and a chance to be in a much more healthy work environment."

"So, it's not how everyone else thinks it is?"

"What does . . . everyone else think it is?"

"That the guys in your unit are psychotic."

"I said some of them need help, but I don't think any of them are psychotic."

"Yeah. Just saying what I heard."

After showing Hicks the way to the departure gate, Carlisle turned to him, saying, "Did you have breakfast?"

"It's too early for me. I'll wait another-" Hicks looked at his watch, "hour or so."

"How about some coffee?"

Hicks thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess coffee would be alright." He followed Carlisle back to the dining area of the airport, where they browsed around before sitting at a small table in an Italian-style coffee shop.

"Have you been off-planet?" Carlisle asked.

"A few times," Hicks replied, not looking up from the menu. "LV-510 is the only place where I kind of enjoy going, because it's really developed and there's a lot to see and do. Everywhere else . . . not so much."

"I get that. I know a couple people that moved there, and they love it."

The small talk was definitely getting boring. Hicks occasionally glanced at Carlisle when they retreated back into their own heads, pretending to be engrossed in the menu. He set the laminated sheet down, and said, "Why'd you approach me when I walked out of the USO room?"

Carlisle looked a little taken aback by the question. "What?"

"When I left the USO room, you came out after me and approached me. Why?"

"Why . . . not? That's kind of a silly question. Is it wrong that I recognized you and was curious about you and wanted to get to know you beyond what I hear from people I know?"

"No, it's not wrong. Just wondering."

Carlisle narrowed her eyes, smiling as she closed her menu. "You're an introvert, aren't you?"

"Damn right, I am."

"Knew it. That's why you asked that question. You hate small talk and you'd rather go one layer deeper into the conversation."

"I don't _hate_ small talk, but it does get boring pretty quickly. It's not very often that I fully get to know someone, considering this is a team job, and it's both nice and strange when I get the chance to sit down with one person and talk to them about more than just the weather or their job or shit like that."

"So, you'd rather be with a smaller unit, where you can talk to every member?"

"I'd prefer that, but I know that's not my choice, period. I'm also hoping that the unit I get placed in doesn't have a lot of issues." Hicks took a breath. "The first unit I was in, right outta boot camp, I remember this guy who was about my age, and really wasn't doing too well in terms of transitioning to the routine of a regular unit. It's more relaxed in a regular unit, you know, we're allowed to talk to each other and take on our own responsibilities. This poor guy wasn't getting it. My guess is that there was something else going on in his head, his life, and he didn't really say anything. He . . . got up one night, and . . . used his razor to cut his wrists."

Carlisle was silent. She looked down at the table, and said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Wasn't your fault." Hicks sighed. "I didn't really know him, but, I wish I could've done something. I'm really hoping that I don't have to deal with that when I finally get transferred."

"Might not have a choice with that," Carlisle replied.

"If I do have to deal with someone hurting like that, I'm gonna do whatever I can to get them help. No one should have to suffer like that."

A weak smile crossed Carlisle's face. "Well, now I see why people in the Corps hold you in such high regard. You got a strong heart and a good head on your shoulders."

"That's what Paulson said the day I got shipped out. 'Course I didn't believe him at first-"

"And then you uncovered your abilities."

"Yeah, pretty much." Absentmindedly, Hicks picked up the menu again. "I'm really grateful that Paulson set some time aside to teach me a few things before I went to boot camp. It was nice to go in feeling a little prepared."

"Your experience was probably shit regardless."

"Everyone's experience in boot camp is shit, up until the last two weeks or so. You should've seen the drill instructors every time Paulson walked in the room."

"Wait, Paulson would visit you?"

"Not in the typical sense. He would observe. I would get a chance to talk to him on Sundays. Anyway, he's so gentle, but he has such a commanding presence. People respect him. The drill instructors made us all stand at attention, and sometimes they'd push through the formation to yell at someone not standing correctly. Paulson would walk to the front, and say something along the lines of, 'I don't see an issue with that Marine standing at attention.' The drill instructors never referred to us as Marines until we passed our last field test. When you hear an officer-a high-ranking officer-say you're a Marine, you feel something good start lifting inside you."

"But, he saw something kinda special in you."

"I wouldn't say 'special.' I guess he felt I had the potential to be a good leader, so he'd take me aside, and he still takes me aside, to talk to me and teach me what he knows."

"Hey, that's impressive, in my opinion. You've got a general for a friend."

"He's a human being like me and you. Rank is just an added bonus."

* * *

 _Author's Note: There were a lot of details in the parts of Hicks's backstory I added in "Lost Cause" that I didn't expand upon because it would slow down the plot. I wasn't originally going to write this, but something eventually got to me shortly after I started working on "Red Ice." I figured this will be like the short story I did from Vasquez's point of view, but I settled on third person for Hicks just to try it out and see how it flows. This will definitely be longer than that, and will probably have a lot more depth._


	2. Chapter 2

The longer Hicks sat in the coffee shop, the less of an appetite he had. Again, that feeling of regret began stretching its tendrils, laced now with homesickness, deep into his chest. _Why didn't I stay home?_ he thought, rubbing his face.

"Are you OK?" Carlisle asked, setting her cup of coffee down.

"Yeah, I'm alright. There's just this part of me that wants to go home. Mainly because I know when Christmas and New Year's are over, I have to go back to my fucked-up unit. I'd rather wait for a new unit to accept my transfer papers at home rather than when I'm on duty."

"Can't you talk to Paulson about that?"

"I probably can. There's a couple issues with that, though. One is going back and forth between the States and Europe. The other is I don't want to look like I'm Paulson's 'favorite.' If he starts doing me favors that no other Marine would get, we could both get in a lot of trouble. I already had to take the last month off because I have a lot of personal days, and I wish I didn't use so many all at once."

"You celebrate Thanksgiving with family?"

Hicks shook his head. "This is the first Thanksgiving I've had at home in years. Usually, I drive out to my parents, but this year . . . I called and confessed I just wanted to be alone."

"I can't imagine that was easy for you to do."

"Not necessarily. It was nice not to hear people arguing or my aunt telling me I should quit the military and go to college. It's just the same shit every year."

"I'm guessing Easter and Christmas are no different?"

"Yeah. Exactly. It'd be nice to have a holiday where I know the people coming are going to be respectful of me and not pester me with questions or flat-out piss on my job."

"You and me both. I love my family, but they seem to think 'family' equals 'talk about something embarrassing at the dinner table.' I'm getting real sick of my brother talking about toilet training his kids. In the meantime, his kids are throwing food all over the place and terrorizing my cat."

"Nice," Hicks said, sarcastically. "Hey, maybe you can spend Thanksgiving at my place next year. No embarrassing conversations, no arguments. Just real tranquility and some good old-fashioned Southern hospitality."

A smile blossomed on Carlisle's face. "I might take you up on that offer."

"Where do you live?"

"Little town right on the Florida-Alabama border. If you want me to get technical, I was born in the heart of Oregon, and moved down here after joining the Marines."

"How come? Seems like a pretty drastic change, if you ask me."

"I got stationed there right out of boot camp. It seemed so much more . . . alive, if that's the right term to use. It wasn't cold or empty or just dead silent."

"Ah. You were looking for something more mentally stimulating."

"Exactly."

"Yeah. I don't live right in Mobile. I'm more on the outskirts, past the suburban area. It's really quiet for most of the year. Even when it gets a little more active-Fourth of July, Halloween, days like that-it's calm. Nobody bothers each other. Everyone has a good idea of who their neighbors are, and when they know that they're not the kind of people who enjoy a lot of company, they stay out of their way."

"You like your privacy?"

"Sure do. I've got a really nice piece of property, big trees around the house. Really old house, too. Couple centuries old, actually. 1910, I believe."

"That old and it's functional?"

"Yep. A few things had to be updated and fixed, but other than that, it's the best living situation I've ever had."

"I look forward to seeing it, then."

Hicks weakly smiled. "I . . . guess we should exchange addresses?"

"Oh, sure. Of course." Carlisle opened her purse, taking out a pen and pad of sticky notes. "Address and . . . home phone and cellphone. All there for you."

Hicks wrote his information on a napkin. "Thanks. Here's mine."

Carlisle found Hicks's use of the napkin charming, and folded it up before sliding it in her purse. As she did, she glanced at a clock on the wall. "We still have a lot of time. I say we have a real breakfast and then we start looking around. They have some interesting little stores I'd like to look at."

* * *

The conversation died down after breakfast. By the time they got up and left the restaurant, it was quarter after six.

"When do you want to head back to the gate?" Hicks asked.

"Seven-thirty. We don't want to be too early, or too late. A half-hour's a good amount of time," Carlisle replied. She paused in front of a toy store. "Do you mind if I look around? I'd like to get something for my niece and nephew for Christmas."

"You don't want to get them something from France?"

"They're too young to understand." Carlisle's face fell. "Not to mention, they can be a little rough, and they have a very long way to go with manners."

"How old are they?"

"My nephew is three. My niece is one-and-a-half."

"Yeah, that's really young. I was well-behaved at three."

"So was I. My brother and my sister-in-law let the kids push them around for some reason. They're awful at discipline."

"They're gonna want to start soon. I mean, I'm in no position to say anything. I'm not family, and even if I was, they're none of my business. I try to stay out of other people's business when they don't want or need me involved."

"If you could listen, that'd be a big help. I shouldn't be talking crap about my family to strangers." Carlisle stopping, and thought for a moment. "We're not strangers anymore, though, right?"

"We exchanged addresses," Hicks said, "I think that makes us friends."

Carlisle smiled. "OK. We're friends. We can get deeper with our conversations."

"If you want. I don't want to look like an intruder, you know, in case you're dating somebody."

Another smile. "Thanks for the concern, but I'm single right now."

"Oh. Hey, we're still Marines. I'll show you respect and vice versa, no matter your rank or status."

Hicks waited outside the toy store while Carlisle went in to look for gifts for her niece and nephew. He paced a little, looking at his watch, and observing his surroundings. Something didn't feel right. It was a weird feeling of dread, like something bad was about to happen. _Just a little indigestion. Not used to the food here._

That feeling persisted as they continued exploring the airport, and it got to a point where Hicks was certain it wasn't his breakfast disagreeing with him. While Carlisle was in a restroom, Hicks went to a payphone, sliding in his prepaid military card. He opened his wallet and took out General Paulson's cell number while waiting for the machine to tell him he could put in the number he wanted to call. He tapped his foot anxiously, and breathed a silent sigh when Paulson finally picked up.

"General Paulson," a stern, but gentle voice said.

"It's Corporal Hicks, sir."

"Ah! Good to hear your voice, Hicks. I trust you're on your way to Paris?"

"Yeah. I'm at the airport right now, actually. I was . . . I was just calling to see if everything's OK where you are."

"Everything's fine. Why? Did you hear something?"

"No. I . . . had a bad feeling, that's all."

"Pre-flight jitters, I suppose. I've been traveling for years, and I still get those from time to time. I wouldn't think too much of it, Hicks."

"Still. I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong."

"Oh, no, nothing's wrong. I won't hold you up too long. Wouldn't want you to miss your flight. I look forward to seeing you in Paris. I'm afraid, though, that I have no news regarding your transfer. No unit has picked it up, yet."

The feeling of dread was replaced by a feeling of disappointment.

"A shame. You have such a delightful personality and strong leadership that you'd be perfect anywhere."

"Well, thanks for letting me know, sir."

"Not a problem. See you in a few hours."

Hicks stayed on the phone for about a minute after Paulson hung up. He glanced up when Carlisle came out of the restroom, and but the phone back on its hook.

"Everything OK?" Carlisle asked.

"I guess. Just . . . been having a weird feeling that something bad's gonna happen, so I called General Paulson to see if everything really is OK. He said nothing's going on, but I don't know why I don't . . . I don't feel better."

"Maybe it's because you've been up since an ungodly hour."

"Maybe." Hicks took a breath. "I'll try to relax, get some sleep on the plane."

* * *

There weren't a lot of people in the waiting area near their flight gate. Carlisle was reading a small book on Paris sight-seeing, and Hicks was staring out the window. The sun had finally come up, but that and two cups of coffee hadn't made Hicks feel more awake or willing to face the day.

"If we have time, would you like to go to the Eiffel Tower?" Carlisle asked.

"Sure."

"At night?"

"I'm gonna want to go to bed. Not much of a night owl."

"Oh, come on, you can break routine just a little."

"Fine. I'll do it once, but never again."

"Is something still bothering you?"

"A little. It's like . . . someone's keeping something from me that they should probably tell me."

"Well, what did Paulson say when you called him."

"He said that everything's OK and that no units have picked up and accepted my transfer papers."

"Are you repressing your disappointment about that?"

"No."

"I think you are. Come on, with your reputation, your story, and your skills alone, how are you not disappointed that no one's picked up your papers and said, 'Yes, we want this man on our team?'"

"Because I know the process takes time."

"You still have a right to be upset. When were your papers accepted by the USCM?"

"Six months ago."

"You should be seething with anger. Every planet-side squad should have seen your papers by now."

Hicks sighed. "I'm not going to get angry. I can't. It's unprofessional."

"That might be why no one's picked up. You're not expressing any kind of desire for it. You need to; it's good for your emotional health, and it lets people know that you care about where you go in life."

Just as Hicks had thought Carlisle was somebody different, he realized she wasn't. Sure, she had worded it differently, but she still gave the same speech that many, many people before her had given to him: he needed to be more expressive in terms of his emotions. At this point, he was tired of it, and when he was dealing with a squad full of people who were emotionally explosive, he wanted to be that calm in the center, even though that was getting more and more difficult. Biting his tongue, Hicks looked at Carlisle, saying, "I'll let Paulson know that I'm disappointed, but I'm not going to act out on it. Please, don't bring this up again, OK?"

Carlisle was silent, and stayed silent as they boarded the plane a half-hour later.

When the plane was taxiing slowly down the runway, waiting for another plane ahead of it to take off, Hicks was starting to regret saying what he said to Carlisle. After all, she had been nothing but nice to him this whole time, and he wasn't returning that by abruptly shutting her out. Still, though, he didn't want people he hardly knew nosing too deep into his life. He liked his privacy, and wanted to keep his problems to himself.

Hicks was shoved back into his seat as the plane sped up and took to the air. He closed his eyes, still debating whether or not he should apologize to Carlisle. Eventually, waking up early caught up to him, and he fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

Hicks was jolted awake by the plane landing against the runway. Slowly sitting up, he loosened his seatbelt, and looked out the window, seeing the glowing skyline of Paris. _I managed to sleep a whole ten hours. That makes up for waking up so damn early._

It didn't make up for the fact that was almost two o'clock in the morning here. Hicks was used to jet lag and jumping from timezone to timezone, but that didn't make it any less irritating. _Just focus on getting to your hotel room and sleeping a few more hours._

He walked off the plane with Carlisle, adjusting the straps on his duffel bag as he carried it out. The Paris airport was significantly nicer than the one in Mobile; it was much bigger, and looked more like a small city.

"The turbulence didn't bother you at all, I noticed," Carlisle said.

"Have you been in a dropship? I can sleep in one of those, too." Hicks was glad that Carlisle had returned to random, but interesting conversation topics. "You have a hotel booked, right?"

"Actually . . . I don't. I was gonna do that here, but I wasn't anticipating we'd be landing at such a ridiculous hour."

"Well, you can stay in my room. I'll go call and tack you onto my bill."

"Hicks, you don't have to do that-"

"I'm not gonna leave you out in the cold, especially at this hour. I'm pretty sure my room's got an extra bed or a couch or something."

Carlisle seemed stunned by Hicks's kind gesture. "God, I don't . . . I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. You've been nice, and . . . I really shouldn't have been snippy when you told me I should be more expressive. I've heard that speech a hundred times, and even when it's said a little differently, I don't like it. I mean, you didn't know, and I shouldn't be mad at you over it. It's a bit of a complicated situation, so I'm sorry."

Carlisle looked like she was about to cry. She dropped her bag, and threw her arms around Hicks. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's . . . no problem. You're welcome." Hicks felt a weight drop on his shoulders. Here was someone being extraordinarily kind to him, and he couldn't make himself be a little bit more expressive? _I can't mess things up while my transfer is still in the air. The better I look, the more likely I am to get that pushed through. It's very easy for somebody to squeal to the brass about me fucking up, and I don't want to disappoint them, especially Paulson._

Learning to be more expressive would have to wait until he got a new unit. Getting that new unit was more important right now.

* * *

 _Question: How is Hicks's internal battle similar to Drake's? How is it different?_


	3. Chapter 3

Hicks slid the keycard to his hotel room into the lock, waiting for the soft beep and a click before opening the door. He held the door open for Carlisle, who was still beaming with gratitude over Hicks allowing her to stay.

The Paris hotel room was large and lovely, made better by a window offering a view of the city skyline, and the Eiffel Tower. As soon as the two entered the room, the lights flickered on. Hicks dropped his duffel bag on the floor, and glanced into the bathroom, which smelled heavily of lavender. "I'm gonna take a quick shower, and go to bed."

Carlisle nodded, carrying her bag over to the chaise under the window. While Hicks was in the bathroom, she unfolded the teal blanket sitting on the edge of the chaise, and covered herself with it as she lay down.

Hicks emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, muttering to himself about how he forgot something in his bag. He unzipped his bag, rummaging around until he found a small tube of toothpaste. As he closed the bag, he noticed Carlisle was fast asleep on the chaise. _She probably didn't get a lot of sleep on the plane. Poor girl, God only knows what she'd be doing if I just left her at the airport._ Hicks went back into the bathroom, and gave a sigh when he realized the shower doors were the clearest glass imaginable. _So much for privacy._

The hot water came as a relief, as he hadn't showered in over a day. He definitely would prefer showering at home, but this was leagues better than what he had on base. Hicks allowed his thoughts to wander as he tilted his head upward to get water on his face. Something was still urging him to get out of the bathroom soon. As he stepped out of the shower, taking his towel from a rack, he saw a tiny clock on the wide sink. _It's three in the morning. I should be in bed._ Hicks dried off as quick as possible, and threw on some dry clothes before walking out into the room. He pulled back the covers on the bed, and was asleep before his head touched the pillows.

It felt like only five minutes had passed when Hicks found himself waking up. He could hear the television was on, and someone was in the shower. Although he tried, Hicks couldn't get back to sleep. He got out of bed, and began changing out of his shorts, exchanging them for his uniform pants. As he tucked in his T-shirt and put on his boots, the shower turned off, and a minute later, Carlisle entered the room, dressed in civilian slacks and a dark blue sweater.

"You know the brunch isn't for a few more days, right? We can wear civvie clothes," she said.

"I didn't . . . bring any civvie clothes," Hicks replied.

"Do you like wearing the uniform?"

"Doesn't matter if I like it or not. It's what was issued to me, so, I gotta wear it."

Carlisle frowned. "Suit yourself, Hicks. How'd you sleep?"

"Doesn't feel like I slept at all. I'll try to sleep better tonight." He looked at the clock. "Jesus, it's only seven?"

Carlisle opened her duffel bag, and pulled out a heavy black coat, along with a knit cap and gloves. "I'm heading downstairs. You coming?"

"In a minute. Let me get my . . . my jacket." Hicks turned off the television after getting a glimpse at the weather (which was going to be cold that day), and put on his issued jacket. "Did you sleep OK?" he asked.

"Yeah. That chaise actually isn't bad." Carlisle was quiet for a minute, then said, "I should probably get my own room, save you some money."

"I don't mind if you stay in my room."

"You serious?"

Hicks nodded. "I probably need to spend more time with people, anyway."

To that, Carlisle said nothing. She gave a tiny smile, walking alongside Hicks down the hallway to the elevator. After calling the elevator, she looked up at him. "Thank you."

As Hicks slowly became more awake, the feeling of dread he had in the airport was returning. A lot of feelings were coming back as he gradually got used to the fact that he wasn't home, and in a different timezone. _I'm here now, I can see Paulson later today. If something was wrong, someone would've told me already._ He sighed as he followed Carlisle into the elevator, watching her press the button for the lobby.

"Everything OK?" Carlisle asked, adjusting the straps on her purse.

"Yep. Everything's fine."

"Something still bothering you?"

"A little. I . . . If something bad had happened, I would've been notified, one way or another. Right now, I guess it's just remnants of that anxiety bugging me. My brain's trying to catch up."

The elevator stopped, opening up to the hotel lobby. There was a strong smell of baking bread and sizzling meats coming from a good-sized breakfast bar at the other end of the bustling lobby. Everything was bright and welcoming. Christmas lights were hanging from every surface, and three giant trees were glinting with decorations. People walked by them, and would turn to call out "Merry Christmas" and "Happy holidays." Carlisle seemed enchanted by the beautiful decorations and would always return a "Merry Christmas" to everyone who spoke to her.

On the other hand, Hicks was intimidated, but did his best not to show it. At the same time, he ensured he was displaying all the subtle signs that he did not want to be approached or spoken to. He kept his arms close to his body, following Carlisle and making sure his head was pointed forward.

"Do you decorate for the holidays?" Carlisle asked.

Hicks shook his head. "Haven't been around to do so."

"What about on base?"

 _She knows what my unit is like, right? That was kind of a dumb question._ "No one's really been cheery on base in the last two years," he replied. "Thought you knew that."

"I know, but . . . you don't set your differences aside for a few days?"

"No. There's never a real break in the tension. That's why I want out."

"You're not with them right now, though, so, you can be a little . . . happier."

"Look, my plan for the day is this: I want to get something to eat, and then go find General Paulson or one of his staff members so I can talk to him. That's it."

"Well, you're not gonna spend all day talking to Paulson, are you? Besides, I thought you said we'd go to the Eiffel Tower tonight. Before we do that, I thought we'd walk around the block and see what else is here."

"You can go by yourself."

Carlisle's shoulders slumped. "Would it help if I said that I want to spend more time with you?"

"Let me think about that, OK?"

Carlisle opened her mouth to argue, but then paused. She sighed, and continued on to the breakfast bar.

* * *

Much like his earlier desire to stay home, Hicks was beginning to regret walking away from Carlisle after they both had breakfast, but he knew informing General Paulson and his staff that he had arrived in France was important, that way he wouldn't be accidentally listed as AWOL.

He was led to the conference room deep within the ground floor of the hotel, where the USCM had set up temporary shop. Next door to that was the banquet hall, which was off-limits until Christmas Eve. After thanking his android escort, Hicks knocked on the conference room door. A second later, a young man in a khaki uniform answered.

"You have an appointment?" the man asked.

"I'm here to talk to General Paulson," Hicks replied.

"But did you schedule an appointment?"

"No-"

"Out."

"He doesn't need an appointment!" a stern voice shouted from inside the room. "Is that Hicks?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let him in."

The man in the khaki uniform held open the door, allowing Hicks through.

General Paulson stood up at his desk. He was tall, clean-shaven, and well-built, with thick blond hair that was beginning to become streaked with silver. "You're relieved, Farris," he said, sitting after Hicks returned his salute. "Go ahead, have a seat, my friend."

"Thank you, sir," Hicks replied.

"No 'sir' today. We're all on holiday. Now, if I recall, you had called yesterday about something bothering you. I would hope that feeling has since . . . disappeared."

"Not entirely, sir. I still feel like something's gonna go wrong, or . . . just something along those lines. I mean, I feel better now that I'm sitting here in front of you, but . . . I don't know."

Paulson folded his hands on top of his desk. "I have a sneaking suspicion this has to do with the fact that you're not a 'party person.' Perhaps, you're nervous about attending the brunch in a few days."

"You invited me, sir, I . . . I thought it'd be a good way to catch up. I'm not nervous."

"But you're at your strongest when you're in a small group, or, at the very least, with one other person. It's natural for someone of your personality type to not be fully comfortable in settings with large numbers of people. Remember what I told you before you were shipped out?"

"About how I still have the comfort of my own mind and no one can touch that?"

"Exactly."

"Like I said, I'm not nervous about the party or how many people are attending. I just feel like someone-maybe it's you, or someone within my squadron-aren't telling me something that they really should. Maybe I've been away from them too long. I mean, if one of them . . . you know . . . hurt themselves . . . I would've been told, right?"

Paulson was silent for a few minutes. He broke eye contact with Hicks, and then said, softly, "Yes, you would've been notified. Trevors can be a bit slow on that, though."

Hicks rubbed his face, and shoved his boiling frustration with his sergeant back down his throat. "Jesus, so something could really be wrong."

"I think Trevors would be more on top of something that serious."

"I hope so. I hope to God so." A nervous lump was forming in Hicks's throat. "Shouldn't that . . . that fear be enough for people to move faster on getting this unit straightened out?"

"This is the holiday season, son. Many of us are on vacation, and it will take longer for things like that to move through the works."

Hicks thought about his conversation with Carlisle yesterday, about how she said he should be angry about not getting anything. He took a breath, trying to process his slow-burning anger into something wouldn't explode if the wrong thing was said to him. "Sir, it's been six months since the USCM accepted my transfer papers. By this point, most planet-side units would've seen it, right?"

"My power is far-reaching, but, unfortunately, I'm not God; I have no idea if any unit has actually picked up and read your papers."

The burner his anger was on was suddenly cranked up. A lump was forming in his throat, but he tried to swallow it. "I hope someone picks it before New Year's, sir."

"I hope so, too. You have a vast amount of talent, and I feel like it's being wasted here. Clearly, you deserve to be placed within a unit where you can use those talents, and form very strong bonds with soldiers who will respect you, not only as a fellow soldier, but as a human being. That's something you need. I'm very sorry that you had to be thrust into such a horrible situation not too long after you graduated boot camp."

"It's not your fault, sir."

"No. No, it might be. I had seen Trevors's severe weaknesses while you were preparing for graduation, and I thought you would be able to help him."

"I thought I'd be able to help him, too."

"I see now I was wrong. Unfortunately, I can't speed up the process of getting you out of there. Not legally, anyway."

"Don't feel bad about it, sir. It was a mistake, and we all make them."

"In the military, mistakes can get you killed. While you have a knack of pulling your squad out of intensely difficult situations, those situations arose because your people are lacking in various communicative skills. It is good they have you to fall back on, but no unit should ever lean on one person. There's always the risk of that one person getting injured or killed."

Hicks nodded. "There's that, and then . . ." He rubbed his face again, sighing. "I . . . I hope I'm not placed in a unit where everyone's depressed and some people are potentially suicidal. I can't deal with that again."

"It's a very hard thing that not many people can deal with. Learn to help them. It won't solve every case, but it will increase the chances of you preventing someone from doing it."

"I wish I had time to learn."

"You'll get that time, I believe. Maybe someone will thank you for helping them, some day."

* * *

 _I guess it wasn't Paulson I was worried about; it was the guys in my unit._ Although he believed everything Paulson said, Hicks wanted answers from his sergeant, and headed down the street to a USCM call center. While waiting for a phone to open up, Hicks's thoughts turned to how he ditched Carlisle earlier. _Deep down, you don't know what she's got going on right now. She could be hurting really bad, and you pushed her away because she told you to be more expressive._

Walking a large room full of phones, Hicks decided he needed to do more than just apologize to Carlisle. _She wanted to go sight-seeing, so I'll go with her. She even said she wants to spend more time with me. What's the harm in that?_ Hicks sat in front of a phone in the corner of the room, far away from everyone else. After putting in the number for Sergeant Trevors's office, he drummed his fingertips on the table, waiting for Trevors to pick up.

"Good morning. Sergeant Trevors speaking," a wavering voice said.

"It's Hicks. I need to ask you something," Hicks replied.

"Corporal! I . . . thought you were in the States. Why does the ID say you're in-"

"Christmas Eve brunch with General Paulson. How are our men doing?"

"They're . . . the same as always. We're getting by pretty well. Actually, two of them got sent to new units."

"Good. No one's hurt or anything?"

"No. No one's hurt."

"And absolutely nothing has changed? You haven't even tried to just . . . just be a better leader?"

"Corporal, I'm still waiting for my new assignment."

Hicks resisted the urge to scream at Trevors. His frustration was going beyond its boiling point. "So am I." He sighed. "Let's try to make our last few weeks or months or God knows how long we have together less of a strain." When Trevors hung up, Hicks wasn't at all concerned that he had nearly exploded on his sergeant. More and more, he wanted to quit. _Why did I even think that Trevors was gonna change while I was gone? He leaves me in charge half the fucking time anyway._

He left the call center hoping that his transfer notice would come that night. Or at least the next day.

* * *

Much to Hicks's surprise, he found Carlisle in their hotel room, watching a French Christmas movie with English subtitles. She didn't smile when he walked in the room, and said, "Enjoy your talk with Paulson?"

"It went OK. I don't feel so tense anymore. Had to call Trevors, though, make sure everyone was alright. I found out that was why I was a little on edge; I was worried about what's going on at base, not Paulson," Hicks replied.

"Ah." Carlisle went back to watching her movie.

 _Alright, Dwayne, make your move._ "So . . . did you still want to walk around the block?"

"Are you up for it? You didn't seem like it earlier."

"Well, I feel better now that I talked to Paulson and confirmed that everyone back on base is OK. I'm ready to just . . . relax." As much as he wanted to smile, something was holding it back.

Carlisle was smiling, though. "Sure. Let me get my coat on." She raised her hand to put it on Hicks's shoulder, but stopped herself, slowly lowering it while taking her coat from the closet. Her smile began fading, and she remained silent until they left the room.

"Is there something you want to say to me?" Hicks's thoughts wandered back to when he was waiting in the call center, how he told himself to be more careful with his words to Carlisle, lest she was suffering and not showing it.

Carlisle was quick to say, "Not right now."

"We're alone. If there's something you honest-to-God want to say, then say it."

"There's nothing I want to say."

"I just want to know if you're OK. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I want to know. I was an ass earlier, and . . . and I hope I didn't hurt you in any way. I didn't intend to hurt you, if I did, and if something's bothering you, I'd like to know, so I can fix it."

"Hicks, there's nothing wrong. You didn't hurt me in any way. It's pretty obvious you don't like showing your emotions to anyone, and that's fine. I'm the one who tried prodding in your personal space, so if anything's wrong, it's because of me. It's not your fault, don't take responsibility for it."

Without another word, Hicks nodded. He looked down at the floor while Carlisle put on her coat, and continued looking down as they left the room. There were so many chinks in his armor starting to form, starting with the fact that no one had picked up his transfer papers, lumped together with Trevors not attempting to improve himself while Hicks was gone, and finally mixed with his indecisiveness about opening up to Carlisle. Sure, she knew about what was going on, but she didn't know exactly how it made him feel. _Getting angry and spewing my thoughts won't get me anywhere. It'd damage my chances of getting into a new unit. Any sergeant out there would think I was gonna carry that horrible attitude into their unit. They don't need that; they need what General Paulson says I am. They need what I know I am._ Standing in the elevator, Hicks looked away from Carlisle as he swallowed past another lump forming in his throat. _I should tell Paulson. Just like I told him my exact thoughts in boot camp. He'll understand. He won't tell anyone._

Hicks glanced over his shoulder to make sure Carlisle wasn't looking at him, and pretended to fidget with his jacket as he tried to cover up the tears welling up in his eyes. He felt obligated to keep going with Carlisle; she'd be upset if he ditched her again. _I can talk to Paulson later. He's probably got a lot to do._ Hicks kept himself from crying, but the pain of wanting to do so wasn't going away. He started feeling sick to his stomach as they left the elevator, returning back to the bright and crowded lobby.

It was bitterly cold when they stepped out into the streets of Paris, and it seemed only people with something really important to do were out in that awful weather. Snow was coming down harder every few minutes. Hicks was beginning to regret not bringing his heavy coat. The black jacket seemed flimsy now.

* * *

 _Question: How well does the use of the third-person narrative sell Hicks's closed-off nature?_


	4. Chapter 4

The day with Carlisle almost felt like a blur, and it made Hicks realize he needed to better adapt himself for situations like this. He usually equated being comfortable with being alone, but here he was, comfortable and not alone. When he wasn't alone, he was dealing with Trevors's incompetence and his subordinates demanding to know when things would shape up.

"Can't you just get a fucking pair and slap Trevors till he snaps out of it?" one Marine had asked, angrily. "Forget it! Just sign my papers and get me outta here! I didn't leave home to be wasted like this!"

Hicks simply stood there and took it. It didn't feel like something worth getting upset about.

The balance of not being alone and being comfortable felt strange. He followed Carlisle around that day, taking whatever she offered, and trying to be pleasant compared to how he was in the morning. While they were in a multi-floored department store, Carlisle brought up the fact that Hicks didn't bring any civilian clothes, saying, "If you want, we can get something you'd be more comfortable in."

"I don't know," Hicks replied. "I didn't bring a lot of money."

"You're letting me stay in your room. I'll pay for your clothes."

"You'd do that?"

"If it means paying you back, yeah. Go ahead, pick whatever you want." She smiled at him, gesturing towards a men's clothing store. "And I bet you'll look great."

Hicks glanced over his shoulder at Carlisle, unsure of how to respond. He shoved his hands in his pockets before heading into the clothing store. In truth, he didn't feel like wasting his time with doing stuff like this. He had plenty of civilian clothes at home, and he wasn't going to be staying here in Paris for very long. Besides, he'd be returning to his base afterwards. There was no reason to buy any civilian clothes. _Should give Carlisle the chance to repay me. I don't know if we'll get another time for that._ Hicks still wanted to make things easy for Carlisle, so he browsed through the large rack of articles on clearance, hoping he could find a cheap outfit.

"Stand up straight when you do that, Corporal."

Hicks whirled around to see Colonel Russell standing behind him. The slight panic disappeared when he saluted, saying, "S-Sir, I didn't . . . didn't see you there."

Russell smirked. "In case you haven't noticed, Hicks, I'm out of uniform. Put your arm down, son. You're pretty much the only sumbitch walking around in his trousers and boots. Didn't Paulson tell you that the brunch isn't gonna be fancy?"

"I think he did, but-"

"But you're a stickler for the rules. There's a time and place for everything."

 _I know I screwed up because officers are telling me I didn't have to be in uniform._ "Well, that's why I'm here. Getting something to . . . wear for the next few days."

"I know. Private Carlisle out there told me you were kind enough to let her stay in your room when she forgot to book one."

"And you're OK with that? I know we're really not supposed to-"

"I know you, and Paulson trusts you. If someone accused you of fucking any of my Marines, I wouldn't believe 'em."

Hicks nodded a little, absentmindedly looking through the rack of clothes again. "Sir, is there . . . any new developments on my transfer? Paulson said nobody's picked it up yet."

"If he says nothing's happened, then nothing's happened, and there's not much we can do. A lot of units are on holiday, and won't be picking up or sending out mail until after New Year's. Only emergency shit's being sent out."

"I feel like this is an emergency."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know. I . . . I've . . . I'm worried about people in my unit committing suicide. I don't know how to recognize the signs or help someone. Part of me doesn't want to worry about it anymore, and I want to be sent somewhere I can study and . . . be able to be on top of things if somebody's hurting."

"Two people in your unit went that way. That's why we started considering splitting you all up." Russell sighed. "It's not an easy thing to deal with, that's for sure. Tell you what, I'll put out a memo tonight to bases where their sergeants are still active."

"If they're active, they should've seen my papers a long time ago."

"That's why I'm sending out a memo. I'm not gonna let you sit and suffer, son."

 _How do I communicate that I'm losing hope? I can't, and I shouldn't. No amount of begging is getting me out of my unit. It's a process hundreds of Marines go through, and I shouldn't be treated differently. People would hate me for it. They'd demand to know why this can't be done for everyone. They'd be angry, and there'd be chaos among every rank. Nothing would get done, and people could get killed. Life isn't fair. That's something I learned a long time ago, and I learned to accept it. Good things will happen though; they just take their time, and they're worth it in the end._ Hicks waited until Russell had left, and grabbed a winter coat, a sweater, and jeans, not caring how they looked, and walked briskly to the changing rooms. He locked himself in one of the small rooms, sitting on a bench, and began to cry. _Come on, this'll be over soon. You'll be out of there before you know it._

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Hicks stepped out of the changing room, carrying the articles of clothing he settled on. Carlisle was standing outside the entrance, and she walked in when she saw him. "That's what you want?" she said.

Hicks nodded.

"You can get more, if you want. You're gonna be here a few days, right?"

"No. No more. This is it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Thank you."

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah. Let's . . . pay for this, and then we can go to lunch, if you want. This is your day, we go wherever you want."

"It's not my birthday, but, if you say so." Carlisle shrugged. "Are you sure you're OK? You sound like something's bugging you."

"No, nothing's bugging me. I feel fine. I'm a little hungry, that's all."

She bought his excuse. After paying for Hicks's clothing (and making him change), Carlisle walked alongside him, leading him down to the ground floor where most of the restaurants were. As they stood on an escalator, she touched Hicks's left hand, then gently squeezed it.

Hicks barely showed any reaction, but he acknowledged how warm and soft Carlisle's hand was. He massaged her hand with his thumb as he thought about his conversation with Colonel Russell, as he thought about how close his situation was to being hopeless. _Paulson thought I had a lot of potential when he met me at the recruiting station in Mobile. When will that potential show? Am I going to be stuck my whole career? Is this as far as I'm going to get in my career?_ Hicks continued to fidget with Carlisle's hand. _I'm never getting out of there._

His thoughts made him lose his appetite when they entered a small restaurant facing one of the mall's parking lots, but he forced himself to eat anyway.

"You were OK with me holding your hand?"

Hicks glanced at Carlisle. "I didn't mind it." He looked at his glass of water, than back at Carlisle. "Does that mean you like me on a level that goes a little beyond just being friends?"

"I . . . don't know. I mean, you've been extraordinarily kind, and . . . well, I really shouldn't try anything because we're probably never going to see each other again after Christmas."

"We exchanged addresses, though, and you said you wouldn't mind spending Thanksgiving at my place because your relationship with your family isn't the greatest, and I said that I wouldn't make things chaotic or uncomfortable."

"Right. The other reason I'm not sure is because you haven't expressed much interest in me, at least on an emotional level. You don't even care about how I look and you definitely don't seem interested in sex. You respect me because I'm a Marine, too, and we have a few things in common. That's literally it. We're kinda stuck with each other because I didn't book a hotel room."

"I'm socially slow," Hicks replied, "if that makes any sense to you. Being in a shitty unit doesn't help."

"There's no way your unit is . . . destroying everything you have."

Hicks was certain a normal person would've snapped at hearing that. He looked at his water glass again, and tried channeling his energy into something else, namely playing with ends of the scarf Carlisle had bought him when she saw it outside a shop near the restaurant. "When two people commit suicide, and you don't know if you could've done something to prevent it, you start to look at yourself in a bit of a negative light. I didn't know either man very well, but, it was still hard to comprehend. I hope that, if I get a new unit, I can take the time to learn about this and learn to prevent it. I don't like seeing people hurt in the mind, and I'm pretty sure a lot of people in my current squadron are hurting in the mind right now. They won't let me help them, and I don't know how to help them. They don't care about me, and I'm struggling to care about them. I really hope I'm sent to a unit where I can bond with everyone, and help them if they need it." He kept looking down at his scarf. "Is that too much to ask?"

"I don't think it's too much to ask. I knew someone had . . . died in your unit, but I didn't know there was another."

Hicks nodded. "Drowned himself in the pool. Now, no one's allowed in there without a partner, and it's locked at night. I never know what's going on. They don't tell me."

"I'm guessing it makes you feel a little insignificant."

 _You can open up, just a tad. It's not gonna hurt. Someone needs to know how you feel._ "It makes me wonder if there's something wrong with me, if I'm bad at my job, or if I seem unapproachable. I know what they need is someone to listen to their problems, and even though I've tried to be that, they don't accept it. It honestly . . . makes me feel kinda worthless."

"But, you're not. It's something wrong with _them_ , not with you. You've obviously tried to help, and they rejected you. It's time to move on."

"If I move on, they might hurt themselves."

Carlisle sighed. "I understand that fear, but, if what I'm hearing is correct, than the damage has already been done, and they need help from a professional. That's it, I'm sorry. You can't let this become too much of a burden. Sometimes, you need to be a little selfish. You need to take care of yourself. It keeps you from becoming depressed and feeling like your needs don't matter. That's . . . That's pretty much the real reason I moved down to Alabama. When you live in a place where you don't get to meet a lot of new people, and you're constantly around your family, things become strained. No one gets a break, people get bored, and then you start getting accused of things you didn't do just to make things more interesting. I was tired of feeling like nothing I did mattered, so I moved."

"Have you felt better?"

"Absolutely. Accept when everyone back home found out where I went and decided to just march on in uninvited last July." Carlisle rubbed her face. "I mean, there's nothing I can do because no one's getting hurt, and I can't say 'Don't show up at my house ever again,' because then arguments are gonna start and people are going to accuse me of hating them for some reason."

"There are programs within the USCM that might be able to help you."

"Those are for when someone is being abused. I'm not being abused."

"General Paulson could do something for you."

"Then people are going to worry that I'm being hurt."

"Tell you what; I'll talk to him tonight about it. He won't misinterpret anything I say and he'll probably understand."

"Hicks, you don't have to do that."

"No, but . . . I want to. It'll give me something to do and think about when I'm waiting for a new squadron."

"Didn't I just tell you that you sound like you need to take care of yourself first?"

"You're one person, and you've been nice to me beyond what I can really comprehend. I don't know if I want a deeper relationship-I need to think about that first-but, if we can maintain a friendship, that's fine. Let me do one last favor, that's all I ask."

Carlisle shrugged, and nodded. "Fine. If that's what you really want to do, I won't stop you. Just, promise me one thing: I really don't hate my family. I just want to learn ways I can communicate with them better."

"OK. I'll remember that." _While I'm at it, I may as well tell Paulson about how waiting is just dwindling my hope. I can do it without getting mad._ He couldn't explain the sudden, tiny feeling of courage developing in the center of his core, but it was there, and that was all that mattered. Being out in public with a lot of people around didn't feel quite as uncomfortable (though he'd still prefer to be in a quieter place). When they left the restaurant, Hicks initiated the hand-holding. It didn't require saying anything. It didn't mean much of anything to any onlookers. They were both out of uniform, so it wasn't against the rules. _This is my boundary for now. I'm OK with this. Take it slow._

For a brief moment, he thought everything was going to be OK.

* * *

It was a little after three in the afternoon when they returned to the hotel. The hand-holding stopped there, as Hicks was a little nervous someone would recognize them. They were both soaking wet and cold as the heavy snow melted into their clothes.

"You're right; I probably should've got another outfit," Hicks said while wringing out his scarf.

"It's water. It'll dry," Carlisle replied, sitting on the chaise and shaking the half-melted snow out of her hat. "Now what should we do?"

"Well, I'm still gonna talk to Paulson for you. Afterwards, maybe we can go see the Eiffel Tower, like you wanted. It's gonna be dark in an hour anyways."

"There's nothing you want to do?"

"Nothing I can think of. Maybe tomorrow. I'm gonna get changed, and head downstairs, if you don't mind. I shouldn't be too long."

"OK. Wait, one more thing-" Carlisle stood up to give Hicks a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

Hicks bit his lip, blushing. He didn't smile at all. "You're welcome. I'll . . . be back." Even when he walked out into the hallway, he couldn't bring himself to smile, just a little. _I'm not a lovey-dovey person. Maybe I'll get more affectionate the more comfortable I get. God only knows how long that'll take._ He stepped in the elevator, only to be joined by three other people. Instantly, he retreated into his head, putting up all the defenses as he backed into a corner. He shoved his hands in his pocket, looking at the floor, then forced himself to look up. _Don't do that. They'll think something's wrong with you._ He let out a quiet breath. _After I talk to Paulson, I'm gonna outside and have a smoke. Just take a few minutes for myself._ At least looking around his pockets to make sure he still had his lighter and cigarettes made him appear like a regular person to the others in the elevator.

Finally, the doors opened to the ground floor. The three strangers left, not saying a word to Hicks. He stepped out, walking briskly toward the hallway to the conference and ballrooms. He glanced outside, seeing the snow had let up a little. A plow came by, pushing the snow off the roads. Some maintenance workers were shoveling the sidewalks and scattering salt.

Hicks knocked on the door to Paulson's temporary office. The man in khaki from earlier, Farris, opened the door, and sighed. "You again, mate," Farris said. "You want to see the general?"

"It's kind of important," Hicks replied.

"He's in the ballroom. Said he wants to see if everything's looking good for the brunch. It's not for another two days. Not sure why he wants to look now."

"Is the room unlocked?"

"Pretty sure he unlocked it."

"OK, thanks." Hicks began heading down the hall to the ballroom designated for the USCM. As he got closer, something was starting to not sit right in his stomach. _I shouldn't have eaten earlier. I wasn't in a good mood. I'll buy some antacids when I'm done talking to Paulson._ He wrapped his hand around the fancy door handle, and pushed it down to open the door.

The first thing he noticed was that the large room was dark. "General?" Hicks looked around the room, and heard a soft creak. The room was cold, so he first assumed there was a bad draft blowing something around. He spotted the light switches next to the door, and flipped on the one for the chandeliers. A violent shiver shot down his spine when he saw a shadow on the floor, below one of the chandeliers. He muttered to himself that it was probably the chandelier itself, but none of the other fixtures had that same shadow. Finally, he looked up, seeing what was making that shadow. Something crashed within him. Not just in his heart, but in his very soul.

Something wet and warm fell onto his forehead. Hicks didn't have to touch it to know what it was as he continued to stare in sheer horror at General Paulson's hanging body. The chandelier chain was cutting into his throat, and blood was dripping down, some landing on Hicks, some landing on the carpet. There were a hundred things Hicks had to do, but he was frozen in place, choking on every emotion that had been bottled up for the last two years. He couldn't stand, and suddenly collapsed. A second later, he was on his knees, and letting out an inhuman scream.

* * *

 _Question: Who seems to be the better romantic partner: Hicks or Drake?_

 _Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter came a day late. Got busy with a few things, and had to deal with writer's block. There were a few times where the dialogue between Hicks and Carlisle wasn't working, because I didn't want them to get close really fast. At one point, though, I decided to build up their relationship, just a little, to make Hicks's fall more painful. Sorry, Hicks._


	5. Chapter 5

Hicks screamed until his throat and lungs were raw. He didn't hear people running into the room behind him, didn't hear them commenting on the hanging body. One of them immediately left to call military police, while another tried talking to Hicks, who didn't hear them at all. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears and his own screaming. Even after his throat and chest were hurting, he looked up, and screamed again.

"Get him out of here," Farris said. "Should we call an ambulance?"

"Bloody hell, Farris, the man's dead!" someone else muttered.

"Not for Paulson! For Hicks!"

"Why?"

"He's clearly distraught, and we don't need him fucking up the MPs' work when they get here, mate!"

"Fine. Do it outside. Where the hell're those MPs?"

Farris pulled Hicks up onto his feet.

" _He's not dead! He's not dead!_ " Hicks shouted.

"He's dead, mate, I'm sorry."

" _No, please! I wanna know who did this to him! Somebody killed him and I'll get my fucking revenge!_ "

Farris kept holding Hicks while making important phone calls. In a matter of minutes, the hotel was crawling with police and detectives.

Two medics carrying a stretcher dashed into the building. It didn't take long for them to see Hicks needed to be sedated if they were going to get him away from the scene. One of them had to wrestle Hicks from Farris, and stick the needle in his arm.

The world was slowing down. Hicks could feel his heart slowly throbbing in his chest, and warm tears rolling down his cheeks. The image of Paulson's hanging, limp corpse was permanently etched in his memory. The pale face, the open mouth, blood running from the cuts in his neck, blue eyes staring blankly into nothingness.

 _He's truly gone. He's left this world. He's really dead, isn't he?_ Hicks sobbed as he was driven to a nearby hospital. The sedative mixed with his exhaustion from screaming was starting to make him drowsy, and he was asleep by the time he was being taken out of the ambulance.

* * *

An off-white color was the first thing coming into Hicks's vision as the sedative wore off. His senses slowly came back, and the first thing he thought of was whether or not what he just experienced was a bad dream.

 _Paulson isn't actually dead. I must've had something bad at that restaurant. It was all an anesthesia dream._ Hicks looked around the room, noticing there weren't any devices hooked up to him. He was certain it had only been a nightmare.

A balding man with glasses entered the room. He frowned upon seeing Hicks, and put his hands in his lab coat. "How are you, Corporal?"

"I think . . . I'm alright. What . . . What happened? Did I pass out in the hotel?"

The doctor shook his head. "No. You were in shock over Paulson's death. You had to be restrained and brought here."

It wasn't a dream. A lump started forming in his throat. "Paulson . . . is actually dead?"

"It's been ruled a suicide. Only his fingerprints were found on the chandelier chains, and there's no evidence that someone else had been in that room at the same time."

"No." Hot tears burned in Hicks's eyes. "Paulson wasn't suicidal. I've known him for three years-"

"I'm only telling you what I know. Your job right now is to rest."

Hicks clenched his fists as the tears rolled down his face. He sat up, covering his face and resting his arms on his knees. Everything inside his body was aching, every muscle, bone, and nerve tip. Everything he had been thinking about and worrying about-his unit, his transfer, Carlisle-were no longer at the forefront of his mind. All he wanted to do was cry. His emotions, which had been bottled up for the last two years, were beginning to erupt from the dark corners of his heart, and he didn't care. They were painful, like an infection that should have been drained a long time ago. Again, he didn't care. He sobbed hard, and it felt like he wouldn't stop anytime soon.

He spent the whole day without looking at a clock. Time passed slowly, but it passed as it always did. He spent the whole day sitting in that bed, doing absolutely nothing. He was still in disbelief. He could not believe Paulson was gone. He could not believe Paulson had taken his own life.

It was around four in the afternoon when Carlisle showed up. She grabbed a chair and sat by the bed, reaching over to hug Hicks in a futile attempt to comfort him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry this happened. I know he meant a lot to you."

"I can't believe he'd do that," Hicks sobbed. "He never acted suicidal, not once. Why?" He pulled away from Carlisle, wiping his face with the bedsheets. "That's why I had that feeling of dread at the airport! I knew something was wrong and I just didn't believe it was with him! Why didn't I press further? He's gone because of me!"

"Oh, Hicks, no! No, it's not your fault!"

"It is! It really is! I had that instinct and I didn't act on it! Just like I've had with soldiers in the past! I . . . people've committed suicide because of me!"

"You're grieving, it's not your fault."

"You're gonna be here a really long time before you convince him it's not his fault."

Carlisle turned to see Colonel Russell standing in the doorway of the hospital room. "I . . . I know, but . . . I don't know what to do for him."

"Let him go. He needs to grieve. God only knows how long it'll take for him to get back to normal." Russell walked to the other side of the bed to give Hicks a pat on the shoulder. "I'm definitely not sending him back to his unit when the holidays are over."

"Did someone pick up his transfer?"

"No. I'm sending him home for a few more weeks. We talked to Paulson's wife, and we're trying to get a message out to his son. It looks like Paulson is going to be sent stateside in a week or so to be buried in Arlington."

"You're positive Paulson wasn't murdered?" Hicks moaned.

"No evidence of foul play, son. Clean-cut suicide by hanging."

"Have they figured out why?"

Russell shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. Try to take it easy, Hicks. You're gonna go home in two days."

A sob was caught in Hicks's throat. Every thought was swimming in a raging river inside his head, unable to surface and be comprehensible.

"I don't want to leave him alone," Carlisle said.

"If you wanna travel back to the States with him, fine. Give me a few hours to get your itinerary."

* * *

The day was a blur, almost like Hicks had been fading in and out of consciousness over the last several hours. He continued to struggle in putting his thoughts together, and didn't start returning to reality until he was being driven back to the hotel to retrieve his duffel bag.

The fog in his mind began dissipating, and he whispered aloud, "He's really dead, isn't he?"

Carlisle turned to face him in the taxi back to the hotel. "Hicks, I'm sorry."

"Don't . . . Don't . . . be sorry."

"How are you feeling?"

"I don't know."

Carlisle said nothing, and instead rubbed Hicks's arm, stopping when she came to his hand, and squeezed it. "Are you glad you're going home?"

Hicks nodded. "I wish I was going home right now. I don't want to wait anymore. I just want to go home."

"You're going home on Christmas."

"What a shitty way to spend it. No, I'm not even bothering. Not this year. I'm fine with flying home on Christmas Day. I don't care." Tears started choking him again. "I was looking forward to catching up with Paulson tomorrow night. I was gonna tell him how waiting for someone to pick up my transfer is killing me inside. I was gonna tell him about what's going on with you and about how you need some help right now. I . . . God, I've learned a lot from him and yet I feel like I need to learn more. I guess . . . he never was proud of me. Maybe I'm the reason he hung himself. I failed."

"I don't think you're the reason," Carlisle replied. "There were probably things about him you didn't know."

"Exactly. He couldn't trust me enough to tell me. The same reason the two soldiers in my unit took their own lives. They couldn't trust me."

Again, Carlisle was silent. In her head, she prayed that Hicks would eventually come to terms with his grief, and accept that it wasn't his fault. "Eventually" was a very broad term, and God only knew how long it would actually take. For now, Hicks was lost, and plunged into a place no one but himself could pull him out of.

At the hotel, Hicks could see the police tape in the corner of the lobby that led to the conference and ballrooms. He felt sick, and despite being certain he had cried himself dry, he wanted to cry some more. "Can you get my bag?" he asked Carlisle.

"Sure."

"Thanks." Hicks wandered over to the other side of the lobby, trying to see past the tape. He saw people in hazmat suits and military policemen. Colonel Russell was there as well, with Paulson's secretary, Farris. After whispering something to Farris, Russell walked over to Hicks.

"You can't be here, son, I'm sorry," Russell said.

"They've taken Paulson away?"

"Yeah. Autopsy was done this morning, and they're getting him ready to be sent back to the States. The wake will be in Washington, after New Year's, and the funeral should be two days after." Russell gestured toward the elevators. "I want you to get your stuff, and then get yourself some water and food. That's an order. We got a lot to do and you need to stay out of the way so we can get this all done as neatly as possible. You'll get to say your goodbyes when everything is set, do you understand?"

Hicks felt like someone had grabbed the bottom of his heart, and was trying to wrench it free from its branches. He quickly turned away from the scene, and walked toward the elevators with his hands in his pockets.

* * *

It was not in his nature to disobey an order, and today was the first time. Hicks refused to eat. A glass of water was all he would take, and Carlisle chose not to force him to take anything else. After that, he did nothing, and slept for the remainder of the day.

At nine, he was still out. His arms were tucked under a pillow as he lay on his belly. Carlisle glanced at him as she stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. Frankly, she was glad he was resting, and not crying or moaning about it was his fault Paulson died. She hoped he would feel a little better in the morning.

Not much changed that following morning. Hicks got up around seven for another glass of water, and then went back to bed. He pretended to sleep so Carlisle wouldn't bother him. It was Christmas Eve, but right now, it felt like just another day. What made things worse was the fact that the bottle he'd been keeping his emotions in had shattered, and he didn't care. He had cried in front of Carlisle, and he cried in front of Russell. Instead of crying and feeling relieved, he just felt like he needed to keep crying. It was a strange and awful feeling. It made him feel like he needed to throw up.

When Carlisle left the room, Hicks sat up, and decided to give in to that desire to cry. As his thoughts slowly began to return to focus, he wondered if this was because he had suppressed many of his emotions for so long. He had to appease some deep psychological need that hadn't been fulfilled in years. After his cry, he felt drained of all physical and mental energy. Some primal needs were beginning to make their voices heard underneath the black fog of shock and disbelief, underneath the spillage of his emotions. He no longer could resist his appetite, or even his need for human contact.

Those were the only two things driving him to get out of bed. He went into the hallway after getting dressed, and headed into the elevator. As he left the elevator, the bright yellow of the police tape was still visible, and the fog of his shock threatened to overtake his need for food and conversation. Normally, he'd stay quiet, but with his emotions running free, he let out a groan, showing everyone around him that he was clearly upset about something.

It didn't stop the dull, gnawing ache of hunger in his stomach. He didn't want to go to the hotel's breakfast bar, though, because it was too close to the yellow tape. With that, he left the building.

He looked all over the block for Carlisle, wondering if she had decided to go to a café. After looking in every window, he saw her in a small coffee shop on the street corner. Smiling, Carlisle waved for Hicks to come inside. Hicks didn't smile back.

"Feeling better?" Carlisle asked as Hicks sat across from her.

He shook his head.

"Well, you . . . left the hotel room. That's a sign of improvement."

"What I do isn't important. Paulson's dead. He . . . He hung himself, and I want to know why."

"I don't have the answer. I'm sorry."

"I know. No one has any Goddamn answer."

Carlisle sighed, and tried to find a way to change the subject. "What do you plan on doing when you go home?"

"I don't know. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to be around anyone, that's for sure."

"You know I'm going with you, right?"

"Why?"

"You didn't hear my conversation with Colonel Russell while we were at the hospital? I don't think you should be alone; someone has to make sure you do basic things in order to keep yourself alive, and make sure little things are kept up in your house. All you need to do is manage your grief."

"I don't want to manage anything, do you understand? I'm responsible for Paulson and the two soldiers killing themselves. They didn't feel like I could be trusted with their lives. Why should I be trusted with anything anymore? Why should I even hope that I'll get a new unit? It's been six months, and I've gotten nothing. That says a lot. It means I have no talent, no trust, nothing. I'm not capable of being a leader. Paulson put so much work into me. He took time out of his day to see me at boot camp. He's taught me things no one else at my rank has even begun to figure out yet. None of that has amounted to anything. I have failed to prevent three suicides. That's three too many." Hicks looked down at the table, his right hand absentmindedly stroking the ends of his scarf. "I'm . . . obviously not meant for this job. I wasted a lot of time, and energy, and all I did was prove that I'm not capable of helping people. I have . . . too many flaws for this job. My recruiter should have never signed my papers in the first place. I shouldn't have enlisted in the first place."

"Hicks? Can you . . . listen to me for a minute or two?" Carlisle asked, softly.

"I don't know."

"Please? Just for one minute." She sighed. "I get this is beyond difficult for you. Believe me, I . . . can't even begin to imagine what kind of intense pain you're suffering right now. You _can't_ put the blame on yourself. It makes things worse. I know Paulson was a very close friend, but that doesn't mean you had anything to do with his death. He may have had demons that he didn't share with you for any number of reasons that don't mean he didn't trust you. Maybe, he was embarrassed to tell you because of the position he was in. He made himself out to be a brilliant mentor, and to reveal something horrible to you would put a severe blemish on your relationship, and would damage your trust of him. Have you even thought about it that way? We all do things that we're ashamed of, but that doesn't mean we want to tell even our closest friends. Sometimes, we don't know how to deal with them. Do you get that?"

Hicks didn't respond.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Hicks. You're a great leader. You've just been stuck in a bad situation for a long time. Things will get better. It may take some time, but _they will_. You need to have faith in yourself and the people who care about you. I'm not going to fill Paulson's place, not by a longshot, but I care about you. I want to help you pull through this. Do you trust me?"

Weakly, Hicks nodded.

Carlisle reached over to squeeze Hicks's left hand. "Can I call you by your first name?"

"If you want. It's . . . Dwayne, by the way . . . Paige." Hicks stopped toying with his scarf to take Carlisle's hand. By no means was Carlisle's crush on him taking away the shocked fog in his mind. It was still there. No matter how much her words should have reassured him, they were not. His grief had only just started. He hoped and prayed this sudden depression would be the worst of it, but deep down, he knew he was wrong.

* * *

 _Question: How do you think hearing this story would change Drake's overall feelings toward Hicks?_


	6. Chapter 6

They were going to have to get up early to head to the airport on Christmas morning. For Hicks, that wasn't an issue. It was past eleven-thirty that night, and he was sitting up in bed, his thoughts running wild.

There should've been a brunch that morning. He should have attended and talked to Paulson that morning.

That's not possible when Paulson is dead.

The image of the hanging body appeared in his mind again, and he put his head on his knees to cry. He could still feel the wetness of the droplet of blood that fell on his forehead when he looked up at Paulson's corpse. That feeling replayed, over and over, until his body couldn't produce anymore tears.

He looked out the window. Snow was falling gently against the Parisian lights. A full moon was beaming down on them. The whimsical feeling everyone had this time of year was nonexistent for him, and the lack of it had created a small void in his heart. A small, and very painful void. This was the time of year where you forgot your problems and focused on being happy. Paulson's death was extremely fresh; it was too soon. To be happy would be disrespectful to Paulson's memory, almost like he hardly mattered.

It wasn't like Hicks wanted to be happy now, anyway.

The minutes ticked by. Hicks watched the clock with a bored gaze. The shock had been slowly subsiding all day, leaving behind a sticky residue of depression. He cared a little bit more about his basic actions, what he needed to do just to keep functioning, and he knew he skimped on that throughout the day. He didn't eat very much, didn't drink very much water, and wasn't sleeping. Being sad and stressed all day wasn't good either. In fact, it made him tired, and yet he couldn't sleep.

He tried to override that horrid pain of accepting the man he'd put so much faith in was gone, and lay down to try and sleep. Somehow, his body made more tears in that short amount of time, and he found himself sobbing once more.

* * *

Hicks managed to get a few hours' worth sleep. He awoke to feel Carlisle gently shaking him, and saying, "Time to get up. We gotta be at the airport in an hour."

Without arguing, Hicks got out of bed, taking a change of clothes with him into the bathroom. As he dressed, he started thinking about Carlisle, and how she was sacrificing her vacation to help someone she had just met three days ago. Something about that didn't feel right.

He was still tucking his shirt in as he left the bathroom, not saying a word. Carlisle was checking her bag, making sure she had everything. She glanced at him, and took a breath before speaking. "I heard you crying last night."

"And?"

"I dunno. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"You really don't have to come with me."

"Well, think of it this way. You're blaming yourself for Paulson's death. I don't want that to lead you in a direction where you believe the world is better off without you. If you're left alone, that could happen. And . . . I don't think the world is better off without you. You have so many years ahead of you to make something of yourself. Think of the events of your past where the outcome would've been drastically different if you weren't there."

"Don't you have your own life? Don't you want to be with your own family for Christmas?"

"Christmas is going to be over by the time we reach Alabama. Besides, I told you that I don't want to be around some of them right now. I'd rather be with you."

It was pointless to argue. Hicks sighed. "Fine. I'm probably gonna want someone with me when they announce Paulson's wake and funeral. I just . . . don't want to take too much out of your life, or . . . become a burden and whatnot."

"I'll stay until you get that message about the wake, alright? How does that sound?"

"That sounds good. Let's . . . finish packing and get going."

It definitely seemed like everyone was already home for Christmas. The hotel lobby was quiet, and Hicks didn't have to wait in a line to check out. He glanced to his right, seeing the yellow crime scene tape was gone. Once everything was finalized, he turned with Carlisle to leave, but stopped when he heard someone call out to him.

"Hey, Hicks! Wait a minute there, mate!" Farris was walking quickly toward them, and held out his hand. "Look, I want to apologize to you."

"For what?"

"Well, for being an ass when you first came to Paulson's office. I knew you and him were close friends, but . . . I certainly didn't know that was gonna happen. He never said a word to me, not a bloody word." Farris sighed. "Trust me, I'm about as confused as you are. Can't imagine how hard the last few days've been for you. He was a nice old chap, Paulson was. Can't imagine whatever it was that pushed him over the edge." Farris looked at the floor, then patted Hicks's shoulder. "Take it easy, mate, hope you feel better soon."

* * *

All the well-wishers he ran into didn't make Hicks feel any better. Nearly all of them felt obliged to say that they had no idea why Paulson did it, and it continued to make Hicks feel like he was responsible for it. Although it stopped when they reached the airport, that awful feeling lingered.

Waiting around and doing nothing didn't help. Hicks started digging back in his memory, thinking about the day he decided to talk to a recruiter. It was late in the summer, his senior year of high school not too far off. He drove into Mobile in the used truck he just bought a few months ago, after getting his driver's license. Sure, the thing was decades old, but it worked. It made him feel a little more independent.

He parked on the side of the street and walked into the recruiting center. He didn't have to wait for anyone, so he knocked on the open door of a youngish guy in a sergeant's uniform. As he entered the room, he was stunned to see a tall, sharp-looking man in an officer's uniform sitting nearby, a colonel, to be exact. Hicks expected the colonel to be cold, even a little distant, but he was dead wrong. The man introduced himself as Colonel Adrian Paulson, and talked to Hicks along with the recruiter. Even after Hicks signed his papers and made a date for his entrance exam and medical processing, Paulson continued to chat with him, taking the time to learn about him, before ending their conversation with, "I see the potential of a great leader in you."

Hicks didn't believe it then, and he didn't believe it now. As the remnants of that memory returned to the dark recesses of his brain, he sighed, wondering how much more he needed to learn from Paulson before he felt capable of being that leader figure the officer saw in him. _It was a false vision, and he knew it. He may've seen something when we first met, but he was proved wrong when I got put in this fucked-up unit. He put so much work into me and he shared his knowledge as best he could, but nothing worked out. That's why he's gone. He was too selfless for his own good._

On the flight home, his thoughts wandered again. At least Russell had promised that he wouldn't send Hicks back to his unit right after New Year's. At least he was being given time to heal, but he had no idea where to start, how to go about it. Maybe it would spontaneously happen during the wake, or the funeral. Somehow, he knew that wasn't the case. Grief was complicated, and unpredictable.

Much like how they arrived in France, it was pitch-black when they arrived in Alabama. Hicks definitely wasn't expecting to see this familiar place so soon. He wasted no time in marching through the airport with Carlisle to the long-term parking lot, where his truck was waiting.

"Just put your stuff in the back seat," Hicks said, unlocking the vehicle.

Carlisle opened the back door, moving aside a plastic bag full of boxes of shotgun shells to set her duffel bag down. She then hopped into the passenger seat, buckling herself in as Hicks pulled out of the lot. She looked around, noticing ash marks on the floor and the dashboard. "This your first car?"

"Sure is," Hicks replied.

"Huh. I'm on my second. Upgraded to a newer model."

"I'm keeping mine till it dies and there're no replacement parts anywhere. I got this used, good price, and she works like a charm. Everyone knew which vehicle was mine in the parking lot during my senior year." Hicks weakly smiled. "I've driven all over the state with this thing."

"Like a road trip?"

"Sorta. One day, I'd like to do a continental tour. Just drive all over Canada, and the U.S., then down to Mexico and Central America. Maybe I'll cross into South America and drive all over there, too."

"By yourself."

"Sure." Hicks sighed. "Maybe I should do that now, just to heal. Might be good for me to go out there and be completely alone for a long period of time, see things I might never see again. Can't be that hard. I can ask Russell for an extended leave of absence."

"If that's what you wanna do, I say go for it."

"I know. I . . . I want to say goodbye to Paulson first. I'm gonna hang around D.C. for a few extra days to talk to his wife, see if we can put together the 'why' of this . . . this tragedy. I hope they got word out to his son."

"You know his family well?"

"I see them a couple times every year. Just this year, Paulson invited me to Easter dinner. They're very nice people. His wife is head of an organization for homeless veterans. His son fixes radar systems on deep-sea fishing boats." Hicks paused, his thoughts looping back to his guilt. "I don't even know if they're gonna want to talk to me. I . . . They know that Paulson's helped me quite a bit, and . . . what if they see me as the reason he's gone?"

"I don't think they will. They're grieving as much as you are. I told you, don't blame yourself for this."

Hicks didn't respond.

* * *

It was surreal waking up in his own house that morning. For a brief moment, Hicks wondered if everything had been a bad dream, and he was waking up on the day he had to leave for Paris. Then that feeling of blood dripping on his forehead returned. The image of the hanging body was fresh, the feeling of screaming his throat raw emerged, and he knew that it wasn't a dream, no matter how much he wished it was.

It took him a minute to remember he didn't need to wear a uniform. After dressing in civilian clothes, Hicks walked out into the hallway, and peered over the railing to see Carlisle was entering the house, holding a large brown bag containing hot food from a nearby café. She smiled up at him. "You didn't have anything in the fridge, so I went out and got something for us."

"Did . . . Did you get coffee?"

"Yep."

"Well, I appreciate it, thanks."

"Your house is very nice, Dwayne," Carlisle said as they went into the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind I looked around before heading out. Did you do all the renovations on your own?"

"No, not all of them. The dining room, the bathrooms, and the guest room you're staying in were all done by someone I hired."

"What about the yard and the pool?"

"I did that myself. I made that a spring-summer project last year. It originally wasn't supposed to be so . . . elaborate, but I really didn't want to spend every fucking morning getting snakes out. I mean, that was a pain before I got all the nets up. 'Course, they didn't like getting dragged out. Almost got bit before I could shoot it."

"Was it big?"

Hicks smirked a little. "You've lived down here for awhile. We've got some big snakes around here. They're even bigger in Florida. No, the real pain in the ass of building the pool were the gators. There's a river about a half-mile into the woods that surround my yard. It feeds into this big swampy area that, unfortunately, people've died in. The gators tend to stick in that place, but they occasionally come up around here because they know there's food. Anyway, one morning, I got up, got ready to go back out and put up the skeleton for the nets. I just happened to look in the pool, and there's a medium-sized gator sitting in there."

"Dwayne, I have to ask, why didn't you build the net before the pool?"

"Big mistake on my part. I didn't . . . didn't plan it very well. It was kinda the first real stretch of leave I had in a long time, so I guess my mind was struggling with that transition. Anyway, I was not about to let that gator stay, but I can't just shoot them the way I can with snakes. There's a season for them, and that was three months away, so I had to waste a good four hours talking to a game marshal because the damn thing's on my property and I want it taken care of now. He wants all the information about my yard, like where my boundary is, where my neighbors' boundaries are, of course that meant I had to call my neighbor, who was at work and I have no idea where he works. So, I tell the marshal, and he says, 'I want a picture of this gator.' I send him a photo, and apparently, he needed to get the opinions of a couple other marshals, and the whole time, I'm thinking, 'I'm gonna have to call an exterminator, and waste more time and shell out money that I need to spend on this Goddamn yard.' Finally, the marshal gets back to me, saying, 'OK, Corporal, it's on your property. Go ahead and deal with it. Make sure you bring it by our building.'"

"Do you do a lot of hunting?"

"During deer season, yeah. I got into it after getting my granddad's shotgun, which he got from his great-granddad. Hold on, I'll go get it and show you."

When Hicks got up to leave the room, Carlisle allowed herself to smile. She was glad Hicks wasn't focusing on his grief over Paulson, and hoped that conversations like this would help him heal.

A minute later, Hicks came back with a worn, leather scabbard. He set it against the wall before opening it and pulling out a shotgun. "As you've probably guessed, I'm a little old-fashioned in a few regards. My house is old, my truck is old, and my gun is old. Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong era." He sat back down, laying the weapon on the table. "I don't know the full story, but I know that this has been passed down in my family because it saved my ancestor's life back in World War Two. I really didn't know my grandfather that well. He . . . passed away when I was six, and my mother was gonna sell the shotgun to a museum in Mobile. My dad said, 'It's been in your family for generations. Why don't you give it to Dwayne when he's older?' So, she held on to it, but I never got to touch it till I was sixteen." Hicks fell silent for a few minutes. "I wish I could've talked to some of the older people in my family more. Many of them are gone and I don't know where the ones still alive are." He stared down at his coffee. "I guess that's what drew me to Paulson. He was a lot older than me, and . . . I wanted to get the wisdom and hear the stories that the old folks always have. I even showed Paulson my shotgun, and he told me that I could take it with me when I got my first base assignment. He never said why . . . now I'll never know his reason."

"I think you'll figure it out in time." Carlisle touched Hicks's arm. "You've got interesting stories of your own, and I'm sure you'll make more as life goes on."

"I hope so. Right now . . . Right now, I'm . . . I'm-"

"Needing to heal. That's understandable. Grieving and healing should be your first priority. You were given time to do that."

"I know. I don't know where to start."

Carlisle continued to hold Hicks's arm. "I wish I knew where to start as well." She took a moment to think. "I know you probably don't want to hear this again, but, start with telling yourself that it's not your fault Paulson killed himself."

 _She's going to say that to me until I announce that it's not my fault. It's gotta be my fault. He would've said something to me if I wasn't the reason._ Hicks pushed away his coffee. "I need more time to think about that."

"Dwayne-"

"Please, don't argue with me about this!" Hot tears stung his eyes. "Everything was going fine until you fucking brought that up! Just like with how you don't like that I bottle up my emotions! I know! Please, don't tell me something I already know! Makes me feel like nothing's changed at all. You know what? You can go buy groceries. I don't want to be around anyone today. If anyone asks about me, just don't say anything. That's all I want."

* * *

 _Question: How would things be different if Hicks was with his current unit?_

 _Author's Note: I don't think there's a definitive answer out there as to why Hicks carries a weapon designed and built over two hundred years before the events of "Aliens." Like Drake's bone necklace, I think it's a really cool piece to add to Hicks's character, and I used the antiquity of his shotgun to build on parts of his personality and backstory (i.e., having an old house and an old vehicle)._


	7. Chapter 7

Almost as soon as he realized he was alone, Hicks regretted his outburst towards Carlisle. Peering out the window, he saw she wasn't touching his truck, and was walking down the dead-end street, turning at the corner to enter the busier parts of the neighborhood.

A small part of Hicks was glad he was finally alone, in his own house. He threw out the brown bags and Styrofoam coffee cups, and glanced at the sink, sighing when he saw he didn't have to clean any dishes. Dishes were never an issue; cooking for one person made things easy.

If it wasn't so cold, he'd sit outside. He decided to busy himself by going out to the shed and grabbing some firewood. Today was the perfect day to make a fire, have a cup of hot chocolate, and do nothing. That was all he wanted to do.

As he headed outside, he looked over his fence to see his neighbor, an older gentleman called Frederick, taking his chainsaw out of his garage. At this point, Hicks wasn't interested in talking to anyone. _I'm getting angry too easily._

"Hey, Dwayne!" Frederick called. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon."

Hicks froze. Every emotion started coiling tightly around his stomach. _Jesus Christ, how do I explain why I'm home without exploding?_ "Yeah . . . I didn't expect it either."

"They said on the news this morning that a Marine general died in France. Isn't that where you were?"

The coils continued to tighten. Sooner or later, they'd contract. Sooner or later, he would no longer be able to hold them back. A lump was forming in his throat. "Yeah. General Paulson . . . committed suicide." Hicks avoided eye contact with his neighbor. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Shit, Dwayne, I'm sorry. I knew you were close with him. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks. I don't need any help right now." Hicks opened the shed, and grabbed a few pieces of firewood. He shut the door behind him, and quickly disappeared into the house, not hesitating to close the window blinds. After tossing the wood into the fireplace, he knelt in front of it, allowing the coiled emotions to spring outward. It was also the moment he realized that he didn't have the means to make that hot chocolate right now. _I'm such an idiot. I'm an idiot, and that's why Paulson's gone._

He sat on his knees, staring into the dark fireplace while sobbing. His fists were clenched, and the hole in his heart started aching. _I'll never be able to talk to people in public about this, not without blowing up into tears._

Instead of lighting the fire, Hicks covered himself with a blanket, on the couch, and began flipping through TV channels absentmindedly. There wasn't anything on aside from football games. Hicks was usually more enthusiastic about that, but today, he wasn't.

He started to doze off when he heard the front door open, and turned his head to see Carlisle walking in with bags of groceries. "Hey," she said, "you OK?"

He nodded, not saying a word.

Carlisle smiled at him before heading into the kitchen. She was in there for twenty minutes, putting everything she bought into either the fridge or a cupboard. After throwing out the bags, she came back into the living room. "I got tea, if you'd like some."

"No, thanks. I was gonna make hot chocolate an hour ago, but then I remembered I don't have anything," Hicks replied. "Made me feel stupid."

"You're not stupid," Carlisle said, gently squeezing his shoulder.

Hicks glanced up at her when he caught the scent of her lotion. It was a very light and sweet scent, like spring flowers. It brought on a memory from just a few days ago, when he was walking in a Parisian mall with Carlisle. She held his hand, and he chose not to let go, because of how warm and soft it was. It was a simple, yet comforting thought.

" _Happiness is a very basic goal. It is something every human being strives for, no matter who they are. Sometimes, it may come as an involuntary reaction, other times, you choose it. Whichever way it comes, I hope you find a way to make happiness a dominant emotion in your life_." Paulson had said that on Hicks's third Sunday in boot camp, after Hicks almost broke down from stress.

Happiness seemed impossible right now, but that didn't mean there weren't little things that could bring him some form of pleasure.

He didn't want to say anything for fear of completely screwing up again. With that in mind, Hicks put his hand on top of Carlisle's. It was just as warm and as soft as it was in the mall. He then looked up at her, and said, quietly, "Can you sit with me?" _Can you, please? I'm honestly lonely. I hurt really bad. I recently lost a friend, and I just want someone close by. I'm not going to say that out loud because it makes me sound desperate and sadder than I already am._

"Sure." Carlisle sat next to Hicks, and found herself being wrapped in the blanket with him. She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.

Hicks pressed the mute button on the remote, and put his left arm around Carlisle, holding her close to him, protectively. "Do you trust me?" he whispered.

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"If you wanted to end your life, would you tell me so I could help you?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe I could help you?"

"I think you'd point me in the right direction," Carlisle replied. "I don't think . . . something like that is going to happen anytime soon, but if it did, I wouldn't push you away."

"Why did everyone else push me away?"

"I don't think that was the case, Dwayne. I think . . . I think they reached a point where they were wholly convinced no one could help them. Even Paulson."

Absentmindedly, Hicks stroked Carlisle's hand with his thumb, remaining silent until a thought finally surfaced. "Maybe I'm terrible at reading people. I . . . thought I knew how, but . . . I guess I don't."

"I wouldn't say you're bad at reading people. You knew when I wasn't happy about how you kinda pushed me away our first morning in Paris, and you felt bad and tried to make up for it. Heck, we never got to see the Eiffel Tower at night, but that's OK. There'll be other times."

"Paige, I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. It wasn't your fault we didn't go." Carlisle pulled a tissue from her sweater pocket, and gave it to Hicks. "Look, let's just . . . not talk about it for a little while. I don't know if that'll help, but I think you need to focus on something else for now."

"Yeah. Maybe that's a good idea." Hicks wiped the tears from his eyes before looking at Carlisle again. Their noses were almost touching, and the scent of Carlisle's lotion was a tad stronger. She hugged him tightly, and nuzzled his cheek with hers.

"Ow, you gotta shave," Carlisle said, smirking.

"I know. I didn't do it this morning. I'm sorry."

"You should also stop apologizing so much."

"It's a habit. I'm s-" Hicks was stopped by Carlisle kissing him on the lips. It seemed inevitable given how they were pressed against each other. It seemed perfect as a blissful moment. Whatever needed to be done could wait. Whatever problems he had could wait. Experiencing this moment felt more important.

They kept each other warm, since the fireplace still wasn't lit, and fell asleep in each other's arms. It must have been three in the afternoon when Hicks awoke, and saw the TV was still on, the fireplace was dark, and Carlisle was snuggled against him. As his memories fired back into place, he realized what kind of position he had just put himself in. _We kissed,_ he thought. _Was that a good idea?_ In the midst of his grieving, Hicks didn't think dating someone was a good idea. His emotions were too volatile. One wrong move could break someone's heart-and if it was his, that was a horrid combination with his grief.

After turning the television off, Hicks was tempted to get up and finally get the fire started, but he also didn't want to wake Carlisle if she was still sleeping. His movement stirred her, and she stretched while smiling up at him. "Hi," she said.

"Hey," Hicks replied. He bit his lip, unsure of what to say next.

"Have a nice nap?"

"I guess. Wasn't planning on it, that's for sure, but . . . it was nice."

"It was. I mean, does that mean . . . we're gonna attempt to go out?"

"I don't know yet. I don't think I'm capable of dating right now. I just . . . I don't know. I guess . . . I have feelings for you, but I don't know where they're gonna go."

Carlisle nodded. "I understand. I . . . that's fair. I won't push you into something you don't feel ready for."

"Well, that's the problem. One moment, I might feel ready. The next, I won't. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, or feel bad about yourself. You're . . . You're a very sweet person and if things were different, maybe . . . maybe."

"Is there something you're afraid of?"

"I just think this is a shitty way to deal with Paulson's death. Whatever piece of my heart died with him is not being replaced by someone else. It can't be. It's not possible. I-I can't . . . I can't love right now. It's too soon."

Carlisle fell silent, trying to word her response without pissing Hicks off. "I think you can, but I know you're . . . having a tough time right now, so I'm just going let this go." She stood up, placing the blanket back on the couch. "I'm going to make dinner for us."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No. I have to keep telling myself that you're not emotionally ready for certain things right now. I'm the one who needs to learn how to better read people, especially since you're the most introverted person I've ever met. You conceal every little thing you're feeling, as if you're afraid someone is going to be upset with you for expressing your own emotions."

 _She doesn't understand, and that's fine. I hope she never has to experience what I'm going through._ Hicks nodded, and then walked over to a closet to grab his coat. "I'm gonna go for a walk."

* * *

Although the rules of nature stated that more and more daylight was around after the winter solstice, it was still getting dark pretty early in the day. The western sky was starting to turn a pinkish-orange, while a couple stars were twinkling overhead. Hicks walked down the street, cupping a cigarette in his hand as he put a lighter to it. The day could only get worse from here, right? _Maybe I should ask her to leave. We can't stay together if we're going to argue about petty stuff like that. She knows I'm not ready. Why won't she let it go?_

He paused at the street corner, glancing at the wraparound porch of the small diner next to him. The street running perpendicular to his was lined with cars, all of their owners crowded into the diner. He could hear music and laughter and conversations, and he found himself becoming envious of others' happiness.

As he walked by the front of the diner, the scent of warm food seemed to float in his direction. He hadn't eaten since morning, and he was starving. Going in the diner was bad idea. One, Carlisle was already making something, and two, he didn't feel like sitting among a lot of people.

There was a big difference between the quaint, Southern diner, and the fancy restaurant Hicks once went to with Paulson in Greece. Yet, he was thinking about that as he looked through the window at the happy people inside. He could vividly remember that hot August day when he joined Paulson for a late lunch in a beautiful restaurant overlooking the cliffs outside Athens. It was a moment to get away from his unit; in fact, that was Paulson's plan for that afternoon, as well as a way to celebrate that the USCM accepted Hicks's transfer notice and was sending it out to other units around the globe.

That was only four months ago, and yet it felt like it was four years ago. _He was alive, then. It just feels . . . so strange._ The pain of hunger was suddenly replaced by the pain of a hundred knots tightening hard in his empty stomach. Another lump rose in his throat, and tears rolled down his face as he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. Why were these emotions still so raw, so painful, and so uncontrollable? _Because my heart is empty as well. I just . . . lost someone I cared about, who cared about me, wanted me to succeed. I failed him, and now he's gone. Shit, even if I became successful, he's never going to see it._ Hicks gave a quiet sigh, watching the cold breeze carry away the smoke he exhaled. _I wish I could've helped him_.

His frustration with Carlisle morphed into the all-too-familiar sadness of losing Paulson. Not wanting to be alone anymore, he walked back home, breathing on his hands to keep them warm. As he approached his driveway, he saw his neighbor, Frederick, sitting on his porch with a Cuban cigar in his mouth.

"Everything alright, Dwayne?" Frederick asked.

Hicks paused in front of his neighbor's yard, then nodded.

"Why don't you come up here and sit for a couple minutes? You look like you need to talk to somebody."

Not wanting to be rude, Hicks walked up the steps to Frederick's porch, sitting in a rocking chair next to him. "Look, I'm . . . I'm sorry about just ditching your conversation earlier. I . . . I don't know."

"Having a hard time because of Paulson?"

"Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I . . . I've known him for over three years. He never showed any signs of being suicidal, or depressed, or . . . anything like that. I know the signs can be hard to spot sometimes, but I don't know why he didn't tell me."

"Well, it's like you said; the signs are hard to spot. He probably had his own reasons for why he didn't want to tell you."

"I just wish I knew what those reasons were. It's . . . It's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life, and I've been feeling depressed and angry and very . . . frustrated for the last three days."

"That's grief, son. It's not a fucking peach. Not by a longshot."

"When will it end?"

Frederick sighed. "That's not something easily answered. It ends when you fully accept what happened and that your life can go on without this other person."

"I can't accept what happened when I don't know why it happened. He's gone, so I'm never going to know why it happened." Hicks rubbed his face. "I guess that means I'll be like this forever."

"I don't think so. It'll stop on its own time. You may not think so, but, it will. Dark days never last forever."

 _Some people don't think so. That's why they commit suicide._ Hicks stood up. "I'm sorry. I should be getting home. It was nice talking to you."

* * *

He didn't say anything to Carlisle when they were sitting at the kitchen table, eating chicken soup that she had made. Eventually, though, neither of them could take the silence, and Carlisle was the one to break it.

"Dwayne, I'm sorry," she said. "I really shouldn't be getting upset with you over anything right now."

"And I accept your apology," Hicks replied. "I'm not being very helpful, either."

"Honestly, no, but it's not your fault."

"Look, I don't want to have anymore of these back-and-forth battles with you. If we keep arguing, there's no way we'd ever be able to have a successful relationship. I haven't heard anything about Paulson's wake or funeral. I don't know what to do with myself. I just . . . I need someone, in my life, more than ever. I need someone to keep me distracted, keep me from being sad all the time. I don't want this to be like my unit, where everyone is fighting, there's no leadership structure, and there's no hope of things turning around. Does that make any sense to you?"

"It does."

"OK, so . . . can we agree to keep arguments to a minimum?"

"I don't think that's something we can make a promise on, but we can try."

"Thank you." Hicks sighed. "I need a friend right now, that's all. I don't know why that's so hard to say. It's . . . It's something I've probably been needing to say for years, but I haven't because I've never found anyone whom I felt I could trust with . . . with what I'm feeling. I thought Paulson was it, and now that he's gone . . . I _need_ someone."

"You need someone you can be vulnerable around."

"Yes."

"OK." Carlisle weakly smiled. "Whatever makes you feel better."

* * *

 _Question: Why could Hicks exposing a lot of repressed emotions at one time be a bad thing?_

 _Author's Note: I recently watched a video on emotional intelligence, and how repressed feelings can show up even years after you first felt them. Much of it had to do with anger and how there's a way to express it without fully exploding, and all I kept thinking about were the differences between how Drake and Hicks express their anger. Hicks's is a slow leak leading up to an atomic explosion. Drake just blows up over and over again, and hasn't grasped the concept of telling someone he's upset without flat-out insulting them in the process._


	8. Chapter 8

The days leading up to New Year's were slow and fittingly gray. Hicks frequently checked his mail, and messages, hoping someone had something on Paulson's wake and funeral. On New Year's Eve, he didn't bother, knowing that everyone was probably relaxing for the holiday.

"Do you do anything for New Year's when you're home?" Carlisle asked, after joining Hicks for breakfast.

"No. I don't see the big deal, honestly," Hicks replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Well, you're shedding the old year off, and looking forward a new year, full of possibilities."

Hicks smirked while shaking his head. "You've known me for a few days, Paige. You think I'm able to just let the past fall away?"

Carlisle sighed, looking down. "No."

"Exactly." Hicks's smile became more genuine. "Tell you what; let's do something different today. Maybe . . . you know . . . maybe we can go to dinner tonight. I mean, Mobile's not Paris, but . . . I'm sure you'll find it just as charming."

"You're serious?"

Hicks nodded.

"If you say so, then I will absolutely go to dinner with you."

"Thanks." Hicks looked down at his coffee, then back at Carlisle. It was painfully tempting to ask if she thought of this as an official date between them, but he felt like such a question would spark another argument. They had been doing good about not arguing the last couple days, and Hicks wanted to keep it that way.

Before the silence could become awkward, the phone started ringing on the kitchen counter. Hicks stood up, toying with the ends of his scarf as he walked over. It had been cold enough to where he wanted to wear the scarf around the house, not to mention it fed his nervous habit of playing with the tassels. He continued to stroke the tassels with his thumb as he picked up the phone. "Corporal Hicks," he said.

"Hey, Hicks, it's Colonel Russell. Just checking in to see how you're doing," Russell replied.

Hicks started squeezing the scarf in his fist. "I'm . . . doing alright."

"You still sound like this is hard to deal with, son. Well, if it makes you feel better, Paulson's wife isn't feeling the holidays, either. The wake is going to be on January third. She wanted it earlier, but, you know, everything's slowed down for New Year's."

"You talked to her?"

"Yeah. In fact, she even asked about you, wondering how you were taking this."

Hicks's cheeks flushed with warmth as tears began welling up in his eyes. "I'm . . . I'm really not taking this well . . . I mean, the last few days . . . getting out of bed has been hard. I don't feel motivated to do anything." He clenched his fist harder, feeling the tension spread to his stomach, where it created an array of tight knots. "Has there been any news on a new unit?"

"I did send a memo out for you, and I haven't heard back. Hicks, I'm sorry."

The tears began to drip down his cheeks. Fluid ran from his nose, and he sniffed, knowing full-well that Russell would hear it. _I can't deal with this anymore._

"We'll probably hear something after New Year's. Try to keep your head up, alright? Don't be afraid to talk to a counselor. You listening?"

"Yes, sir," Hicks replied, softly.

"Paulson wouldn't want you to give up. There's always an end to the tunnel, and you're gonna see that light, OK? Now, I'm gonna get plane tickets ready for you and Private Carlisle. You should get them tomorrow, or the next day."

"This is in . . . Arlington, right?"

"Nearby. The funeral will be in Arlington. Bring your dress uniform." Russell paused, and seemed like he was going to hang up, but then said, "Don't forget a coat, Hicks. It's gonna be cold at the cemetery."

After hanging up, Hicks took his scarf in both hands, massaging and stroking it as he sobbed. Without a word, Carlisle got up to hug him, and he switched from holding his scarf to holding her. He gently massaged her upper arm, and rubbed her back.

"News about the funeral?" Carlisle asked.

"Yeah," Hicks sighed. "Russell's getting us both plane tickets." He ran his hand through Carlisle's hair. "Still . . . nothing on a new unit."

"You'll get it. Don't worry."

"It feels like it's never going to happen," he sobbed, and squeezed her tightly.

"It will happen, OK? Don't give up."

Hicks had a hard time believing that. He rested his forehead against Carlisle's, giving another sigh. "I know you said that you'd leave after the funeral, but-" he choked on more tears, "I don't want you to go."

"Then I won't go. Just let me call my neighbor to look after my cat, alright?"

He nodded.

"OK. Now, are we still going somewhere tonight?"

"Did I promise that?"

"Yes."

"Then I can't go back on it." Hicks didn't want to go anywhere. Maybe things would change later, but not right now. He didn't let go of Carlisle; he didn't want to. But, he wished this disgusting torrent of emotion would stop, or slow down. Deep down, he knew that wasn't possible. Just how deep was this infected wound that he should've drained a long time ago? It seemed bottomless. It seemed like it would never fully drain. It seemed like Paulson's death and the fact that no one wanted him in their squadron was only making it deeper, making that infection worse.

Carlisle gently pulled away. "I'm gonna go make that phone call. You should try to eat something, and have some water." She patted his shoulder before leaving the room.

Feeling oddly weak, Hicks sat down at the table, looking at his breakfast. It was now cold, and unappetizing. His coffee was cold as well, and he stood back up to place both in the microwave. _Why is it that I don't want to eat, yet I feel so hungry at the same time? I feel sick, almost. It's . . . like that same feeling of dread I had before Paulson hung himself._

That's why he couldn't eat. He had that dread feeling, and he didn't listen to it. That was why Paulson died. Paulson didn't have to die, if only Hicks paid closer attention to that dread feeling.

Instead of putting the dish and cup in the microwave, Hicks tossed the food in the garbage, and dumped the coffee in the sink. _I can't eat anymore._

Carlisle came back in the kitchen, confused when she saw Hicks standing by the garbage can. "What's the matter? Did I make a bad-"

"No. I can't eat."

As she had learned, Carlisle didn't argue, but she was tired of how sad Hicks was. In her head, she prayed that saying goodbye to his friend would help him start to heal.

* * *

The restaurant near the center of Mobile was crowded with people all going out to celebrate New Year's Eve. Hicks's mood had improved, albeit slightly, over the course of the day. Having not eaten at all, he still felt weak. The anger and sadness had caved in to his most basic needs, but that didn't mean they were gone for good. For now, all he was feeling was weakness, a nauseous hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

Carlisle occasionally glanced at Hicks while reading the menu. She took her time in looking at her surroundings, liking the charm and décor of the old restaurant. However, they were technically on a date, and they weren't going to get anywhere by not speaking to each other. Slowly setting the menu down, Carlisle adjusted her shirt. "Dwayne?"

He looked at her. "What?"

"If . . . you don't mind me being brutally honest here, I just . . . I want to talk to you. I know everything has kinda gone to shit for you, and I'm trying to help you."

"OK. Find something we can talk about," Hicks replied. "You know what, I got something; how about we talk about the fact that we've been doing pretty good about not arguing, and you're trying to find ways to stir that fucking pot." He gave her an icy gray-green stare. "I really want to know why."

"Why? Because I don't know how to help you. You are sad all the time, and you don't seem to do anything about it. You blame yourself for something you didn't do-"

"I'm not treading that ground. Not today, not tomorrow, until I get some fucking answers on why Paulson killed himself. I don't see why that's so hard for you to grasp. I really don't. I've said it several times that this is something I don't want to talk about, and yet you think it's OK to try to talk about it. What gives? Really, w-what's the matter with you? If you want me to be brutally honest here, you doing this doesn't make me want to love you. It's not . . . It's not fostering those feelings that I have for you. If you actually care about me, you won't prod at things that I'm not ready to talk about."

"When will you be ready to talk about it? I'm not gonna let you crawl back into your shell just because you're uncomfortable. You need to face these problems eventually."

"Well, 'eventually' isn't 'now.' Stop acting like next minute will be 'eventually.' You doing this just makes everything worse. Maybe you should just go home if that's gonna be your strategy with me."

"I'm tired of seeing you like this."

Hicks took a breath, struggling to keep the boiling cauldron of emotions from surging outward. "Big deal. If you can't put up with it, then leave. You doing this is not helping. You're not giving me any room to just . . . feel what I feel-"

"I'm giving you lots of room! You just keep suppressing it! You need to stop doing that! You're not gonna start healing until you tell someone how you actually feel!"

"Really? I've been a lot more open with you than I have been with other people my entire life! Is that not good enough for you? What do you want me to do?"

"Get angry, Dwayne! Covering it up is making it worse! Go ahead! I don't care!"

Again, Hicks pressed down on the lid of his emotions. Not here, not in public. _Not now_. Even though it was getting more painful to hold down by the minute.

* * *

That night wasn't memorable, nor could Hicks remember it starting shortly after he and Carlisle returned home. Once Carlisle was in the shower, Hicks left the house, and got back in the truck to drive down to a convenience store next to the restaurant they ate in.

The feeling of hopelessness and sheer anger was overwhelming. No news on a different unit was what really set him off. He wished he could tell Paulson how bad this was bothering him, how much he felt like staying with Trevors and his incompetence was going to screw his career, how much he felt like he was the reason that two soldiers under his command had killed themselves.

But that was no longer possible. Paulson was gone, and never coming back.

Hicks drove all the way down to a secluded spot near Mobile Bay, a six-pack of beer in the passenger seat. _I just want to forget. I don't want to deal with this anymore. No one seems to care. Even people who claim they do really don't. They don't listen._

After parking, Hicks took the six-pack and walked into the patch of woods separating the lot of a small grocery store and a short, sandy hill overlooking the bay. He set the pack next to him as he sat down by the edge of the hill, and yanked a can free from its plastic binding. _I'm going to forget. I really don't care what happens at this point. It's pretty obvious my whole career is going to be short-lived, and terrible. I'm going to be remembered for making three men commit suicide. Tears started rolling down his face, as he drank the contents of the can._ _It'll all stop soon. It's gonna go away._

Seeking such unrealistic goals never had good consequences. It didn't take very long for Hicks to be slumped with his back again a tree, empty cans strewn around him. His face and eyes were red with drunkenness, and he was muttering something about how nice it must be to forget childhood.

The anger was still there. It refused to leave, and it took advantage of Hicks's weakened state of mind to finally erupt from the cauldron in which it was being suppressed. It didn't completely explode, like Hicks thought it would, but it was definitely leaking its hot, toxic contents all over his brain. He stood up, stumbling away from the tree with a half-empty can in his hand. He walked past his truck, his mind completely focused on his anger, and how it felt all over his body. It was like someone had given him a shot of adrenaline. He felt compelled to do something destructive, to really let people know exactly how he was feeling.

He continued to stagger toward home. It was a very long walk, but he was nearly unaware of that. In fact, it was pretty late at night when he returned, seeing Carlisle sitting in the living room, watching a movie on TV. She looked up when she heard him fumbling around with the doorknob, and opened it for him. She then screamed when she saw he was horribly drunk, stinking of alcohol, and carrying the damning evidence in a can.

"You wanted me to get angry, sister," Hicks spat. "Here it is." He threw the can across the room. It landed in the kitchen, spilling its remaining contents on the floor. He pointed at Carlisle, breathing heavily. "I killed Paulson! I killed him, and I killed those two soldiers! Nobody can rely on me for anything! They can't even rely on me to help them when they reach a dark point in their lives! I tried being that calm center for my unit, and in order to do that, I had to put my own feelings beneath me! I bailed my men out multiple times! I shouldn't have to do that! We need to be a team, and we're not! Trevors is a fucking moron! He shouldn't have even been allowed into the Marines! Somehow, they put all the mentally ill soldiers under my command when I became a fucking corporal! They need to go home! They're _ruining_ my career, as is Trevors!" Hot tears streamed down his face. "I'm not going anywhere! I'm never going to go anywhere in life! I killed those men, because I failed to take to heart what Paulson taught me! I wasted his time, and that's why he fucking killed himself!"

Carlisle was frozen in place, unsure of how to react. After all, Hicks had made no move to hurt her, or himself. Not to mention, she wondered if this was his actual anger being released, and not just a drunken rage. It didn't stop her from clenching her fists, hoping she didn't have to hit him.

Luckily, she didn't. Hicks's speech ended there, and he turned toward the stairs. He stumbled and grabbed onto the railing, suddenly unable to lift himself up. He slumped down, still holding the railing. Carlisle helped him up, saying, "Alright, you're going to bed."

* * *

Hicks awoke from a fitful sleep that had been plagued with nightmares. The fact that today was the start of a new year didn't even cross his mind. Actually, not much was crossing his mind at all, aside from wondering what exactly had happened last night. Why was his memory so fuzzy?

A sudden stabbing headache as he sat up in bed answered his question, and vague memories began flooding back into his head. _My God, I got drunk last night._ He rubbed his face, alternating between feeling scared, and wincing from pain. _Paige . . . Jesus, I didn't hurt her, did I? Did I drive?_ Hicks slowly got out of bed, taking a bathrobe from the foot of the bed. He struggled to push past the headache as he left the room, going downstairs in search of Carlisle. "Paige?" he called. "Are you OK?"

He got no answer as he got closer to the guest room, and he feared the worst. _I hurt her. I got drunk, and I hurt her._ Tears stung his eyes, and he felt another surge of pain enveloping his head. Opening the guest room door, he called Carlisle's name again, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard, "I'm in the shower!"

Speechless, Hicks nodded. He sat on the bed, and realized the whole room smelled like Carlisle's lotion. It didn't take away the pain and the frustration, but it reminded him of when they held hands in Paris, when they snuggled together on the couch.

Carlisle came out of the bathroom, smiling when she saw Hicks. "Good morning. You-" She was stopped when he grabbed her in a tight hug.

"I'm sorry I got drunk last night," he whispered. "I'm sorry . . . I . . . I thought I may've hurt you."

"No, you didn't hurt me. You didn't hurt anyone, actually," Carlisle replied. "I think we both did a lot of things wrong last night, Dwayne."

For a moment, they paused, trying to collect their thoughts in order to word them properly to each other. They ended up sitting on Carlisle's bed, talking about what had happened. As Hicks pieced together the events of the previous night, he found he had done exactly what Carlisle said: he got angry. He unleashed an emotion that he had suppressed for years. He told her exactly how he felt.

And yet, things felt like they hadn't changed. Of course, Paulson was still dead, and Hicks was still attached to the same damn unit. After Carlisle gave a brief summary of that alcohol-infused speech of rage he gave last night, Hicks lowered his head, feeling like it was better to cry rather than speak.

* * *

 _Question: What parts of Hicks's and Carlisle's personalities are preventing them from coming up with a better solution?_


	9. Chapter 9

Washington, D.C., was much colder than home. Much, much colder. Hicks wasn't at all surprised to see so many people bundled in coats and hats and scarves of all kinds as he and Carlisle left the airport down to the Metro station underneath. "I'll buy your card," he said, opening his wallet as he stood in front of a machine and map showing every line and stop in the D.C. area. "Have you been here before?"

"No. Already, I'm . . . I'm very excited to see what's here," Carlisle replied.

"Quite a bit, actually. Paulson's invited me to visit a few times. I know it like the back of my hand." Hicks revealed he already had a Metro card, one that was a few years old, and slid it across a sensor to see how much money was on it. "OK. I got enough for our ride to Crystal City, so . . . let me just . . . put a few bucks in . . . and-" A fresh card was spat out of the machine, "there's one for you. Make sure you hang onto that. "

"Thank you." Carlisle held her card tightly, and followed Hicks down to the train platform. "Are you OK?"

"For now, yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Because I know we're not here on vacation, and . . . I want to make sure you're feeling OK. The last few days have been rough on you, and I hope that saying goodbye will help you start healing."

Hicks nodded. He was fully aware of how every day since Christmas Eve had been horrible. Only yesterday did he start trying to better manage his anger and sadness. His heart was still aching badly, but it seemed like his worst emotions were dormant today.

Dormant, or he just subconsciously suppressed them again.

"You know . . . I wasn't pleasant when I took you out to dinner on New Year's Eve," Hicks said. "I know there're some good restaurants in the mall. How about I treat you to that and dessert?"

"OK." As the train screeched to a halt alongside the platform, Carlisle stood on her toes to give Hicks a kiss on the cheek. She smiled when he smiled, and squeezed his hand as they boarded the train.

Hicks knew it wasn't proper to passionately kiss someone in public. He moved closer to Carlisle, putting his arm around her and using the hoods of their coats to cover themselves, before kissing her. It was a strange thing for him to do. He had never been a romantic person in all his life. While most of the other guys in his class hooked up and kissed in the hallways, Hicks was usually doing something else, not interested. Then again, he figured things would change if the right person came along, and it seemed like Carlisle was the right person.

He wondered, though, if things would be different if Paulson hadn't killed himself. Part of him wondered if these feelings were some sort of emotional defense mechanism, trying to keep away a more serious form of depression. None of it was because he felt like he had a connection with her or that he could see himself spending the future with her; it was an involuntary reaction to a severe emotional crisis, a means of protecting himself from a horrible mental illness. However, it could also be a coincidence. He could really love her. He hoped that was the case.

They checked into the hotel room shortly before heading back down to the mall. Cold air circulated around the underground space, fueled by the constant opening of doors to the aboveground. It gave Hicks a good excuse to keep his scarf on, even when they sat down in a reasonably warm restaurant.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, have you . . . been on many dates?" Carlisle asked.

"No. This would be my second, if you count the shitshow that was New Year's Eve." Hicks paused. "Well, maybe we can count the time we went to lunch in Paris. I dunno. Anyway . . . no, I really haven't been on many dates."

"I guess that would explain why you're a little bit awkward with this. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. It's just . . . something I noticed."

"Yeah, no, I really didn't date in high school. No one really approached me, and I didn't approach anybody." Hicks snorted. "You kidding? Who'd wanna approach me when I was in high school? I was bone-thin, I worked on my uncle's farm, so I kinda smelled like cow shit a few days a week. I wasn't a nerd, but I also wasn't like a jock or anything. I was . . . I was just me. I kept to myself, I didn't bother anyone, didn't get involved with any drama, did my work, and that was it. I stayed in the background." Hicks shrugged. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, I don't think it's a bad thing. Did you have any hobbies, or did you do sports?"

"I played football my sophomore and junior year. I struggled with putting the necessary weight on, and stopped when I enlisted in the Marines, I put myself on a different exercise and diet routine, and didn't have time for it anymore. Over the summer in between my junior and senior year, before I enlisted, all the weight I put on for football kinda fell away and I was back to being really skinny."

"I'm guessing your recruiter told you to put it back on," Carlisle said. "A lot of the people in my program had to lose weight."

"I tried. I really did try. Eventually, I got to borderline-this was right before my ship date-and my recruiter said, 'You know what? You don't have anything to worry about. Hopefully, they'll put some muscle mass on you in boot camp.' That wasn't the case. No, my nickname all throughout boot camp was 'skinnybones.' Drill instructors never know your name until you get your uniform with your name on it, and even then, they just don't give a shit. I was called 'skinnybones' on graduation day, too. What were you called in boot camp?"

"Oh, I was called 'punk.' Apparently, my hairstyle is similar to what punk rocker girls have. I dunno. I just knew my hair was in regulation, so I really didn't give a rat's ass what they thought."

"I don't listen to punk rock, so I wouldn't know. I think your hair's nice, by the way."

"Well, thank you."

The conversation died down, and they tried to find another topic. Carlisle was looking up at one of the TVs, reading the nightly lottery numbers. Hicks was sipping his drink, opting for hot tea instead of alcohol. After all, the drunken rage he had a few nights ago was still prominent in his mind.

"Ever buy a scratch-off ticket, you know, for shits and giggles?" Carlisle asked.

"Once," Hicks replied. "I got nothing. But, I'll tell you what I'd do with that kinda money. I'd get myself a small boat, and take it out to the bay every summer weekend, sail out into the Gulf of Mexico and watch the sunset. I'd pay off my mortgage, and then put some away for that continental road trip I was telling you about."

"You're the first person I've met who hasn't said, 'I'd give it all away.'"

Hicks shook his head. "I want to achieve my goals. More than ever now that . . . Paulson's gone." He sighed, the image of the hanging corpse starting to emerge at the center of his mind. "Anyway, I . . . it's not like I'd ever hit the jackpot. Not with my luck. For now, I'm happy with what I have."

"Yeah, I'm happy with what I have as well. I mean, it's not wrong to want just a little bit more out of life. A boyfriend, for example, someone I can laugh with and spend time with."

"Do you see that as me?" Hicks asked, smiling weakly.

"Maybe. I guess . . . you know, the last few days haven't been the greatest, and I guess I need to see you when you're . . . happy, and when you're functioning normally. Right now, all I know is 'depressed Dwayne Hicks.'"

"Well, you're not wrong. What you got from the airport probably wasn't a spectacular image, either. After all, you're right; I do suppress my emotions, and the consequences haven't been pretty. Hell, it took . . . getting fucking drunk to finally tell you just how upset this whole situation has made me. That shouldn't have happened."

"No, but, it did, and there's nothing you can do about it. We learn from our mistakes, so, maybe it was something you needed to do in order to learn and realize that your current coping strategy isn't working."

Hicks nodded, looking down at the table. "I hope things start to change once I . . . once I say goodbye to Paulson. Unfortunately, I have to go back to my unit after the funeral. Definitely not looking forward to that."

"Can you take more time off?"

"I used up all my personal days. Won't get anymore until next month. Russell can only give me so many extra days, and I can't request anymore unless I have some kind of medical condition." Hicks fell silent when a waiter finally returned with their food, and resumed talking as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. "I know it's a few days down the road, but . . . I'll miss you. I'll write to you, for sure. I have a feeling it's gonna be a long time before we physically see each other again."

Carlisle nodded. "I'll miss you, too. I like our little conversations together. Also hoping you get something on a new unit soon. After all, we're past New Year's. Someone's got to have seen your papers."

"I hope so, too, but I'm not betting on that. I might hear something tomorrow, I might hear something . . . next week, I suppose. Like I said, though, I . . . my hopes on this aren't very high."

"It'll come when you least expect it."

Hicks didn't respond, still feeling like there wasn't much left he could hope for. _Well, I can hope that Paige stays in my life. It's something. Anything is better than nothing._

* * *

They managed to return to their hotel room before seven that night, both in a good mood, though Hicks was regretting ice cream as his dessert choice in winter. "I'll take the first shower," he said, shivering a little as he took his coat off.

"OK." Carlisle gave him another kiss on the cheek. "I had fun tonight. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Just . . . trying not to think about tomorrow, that's all."

"I understand."

"Thanks." Hicks pulled his nightclothes out of his duffel bag before heading into the bathroom. He took that time alone to cry as softly as he could. _I'm not at all ready for tomorrow. I'm going to embarrass myself in front of everyone at the wake._

He again cried when Carlisle went in the shower after him. Again, the hopelessness was horribly overwhelming. He knew his reaction tomorrow was going to be emotional. _Everyone there is just going to have to deal with it. I can't hold this back anymore._

In the morning, Hicks wasn't at all interested in getting breakfast, despite Carlisle pleading with him and telling him that his mood was going to be worse with nothing in his stomach. Again, he refused. "I'll have a glass of water," he said. "That's it."

Instead of arguing, Carlisle got him the water before ordering a small breakfast for herself through room service. They didn't leave the hotel until nine AM, walking down to the Metro station, hand-in-hand.

Hicks did a piss-poor job of concealing how he felt, and he knew it. The redness in his cheeks, the bloodshot and dark circles under his eyes, and the wet streaks on his face made it undeniable that he had been crying, that he was upset about something. At times, he wondered if everyone around him could tell he was starving without the input from his gut, if everyone could tell that he had been neglecting himself for the last few days.

He wished he could smoke on the train. With that off the table, he turned to his scarf, slowly toying with it as he stared ahead at the old safety sign near the door to the car in front of them. He then looked down at his lap, still holding Carlisle's hand as he continued playing with the scarf.

Carlisle rubbed Hicks's arm, and squeezed his hand tightly when the computerized voice announced their destination was next. "Everything's gonna be OK," she whispered.

Hicks took a deep breath. _If I cry, I cry._

When they stepped onto the platform, the ambience of the city was drowned out by Hicks's own heartbeat. He focused on it, listened to its steady thumping, feeling the fist-sized organ throb within in his chest. By God, was he scared. All the important people in the USCM were going to be there. He was going to be the only man there with a rank lower than sergeant. He was going to be expected to handle this with great self-discipline.

There was a crowd of civilians and soldiers alike gathered outside a large funeral home. All were bundled in heavy, black coats. There was not a single bright color to be seen. Most of the military men were in dress uniforms, as was Hicks, who approached Colonel Russell and Sergeant Farris near the main entrance.

"How're you doing, Hicks?" Russell asked.

"I've had better days, I guess," Hicks replied, silently hoping and praying neither man saw just how mentally and physically strained he really was. "Lotta people inside?"

"Quite a bit, yeah. Paulson's wife is in there, too. Make sure you talk to her. She looks as bad as you do right now."

Hicks shyly nodded, and looked at Carlisle. "I'm . . . going in. I think I need to do it alone." He let go of her hand, and began maneuvering his way through the crowd. It thinned out once he got through the door, where the funeral home director gestured for Hicks to sign in a large book. As he signed, he glanced up to see large poster boards plastered with photographs from nearly every part of Paulson's life. His official military honors were laid out on a decorative table, all surrounding an open casket.

He glanced at the poster boards when he walked by, and paused when he noticed that someone had added a photograph with him in it. The picture was from two years ago, and it showed a smiling Paulson grasping the hand of a smiling Hicks, both standing in front of a USCM flag at a party. It didn't take long for Hicks to see that many of the photos had him in them. In every one, it seemed clear that Paulson was proud of him, that he meant something to the older man.

 _I just had to go and let him down._ Hicks swallowed past a growing lump in his throat, as he slowly turned toward the casket.

Paulson had been dressed in his best uniform. It was strange to see him without his medals and ribbons on. He looked asleep, but the lack of his chest rising and falling let everyone know he was truly dead. Hicks knelt in front of the casket, a thousand thoughts and emotions roiling beneath his surface. He noticed the morticians had all but erased the cuts in Paulson's neck, made by the chandelier chains he hung himself with.

Hicks stared at the face of his dead friend, his mentor. Tears flowed freely, and he took a breath, his composure gradually falling away. "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't know what it is you were battling. I don't know what made you snap and decide ending your own life was the best course of action. You did a lot for me, more than I'll ever deserve. You had a wealth of knowledge I'll probably never find again in a man." He sobbed. "Whatever it was I did . . . I'm sorry . . . Paulson, I'm sorry . . . I'll try to be a better man. Never again will anyone under my watch . . . commit suicide . . . Never again . . . That's a promise."

A promise is a big deal. Hicks knew he could not break it, under any circumstances. He knew this was going to require so much mental energy. He knew this was going to require him putting the needs of others before his own, potentially sacrificing his own goals in the process.

What did that matter? He made a promise. He felt obliged to keep it. _I can do it. I can prove I'm trustworthy. I don't want to experience this again._

Hicks was unaware of the other mourners behind him. No one said anything, but they also wanted to kneel and say their final words to the deceased. Eventually, someone came over to tap Hicks on the shoulder. He turned to see Paulson's widow, Julia, standing by him, her thin hand on his shoulder.

"Do you mind if I speak to you in private, Dwayne?" she asked.

Hicks took a breath, unsure if he wanted to leave. "Not at all, ma'am." He stood up, following the short woman into a hallway, out of range of the other mourners.

Julia appeared to be restraining herself from crying, though she had been doing so all day. Gray streaks were beginning to show in her dark hair, and her features had become sharper in the last few days. She looked Hicks in the eye, saying, "I want to know what you know. Did he say anything to you?"

"No. I was going to ask you the same thing," Hicks replied.

Julia took a wadded tissue from her purse. "God . . . how bad must he have been feeling . . . to not tell you? He didn't say a word? No hints, whatsoever?"

"If he gave any hints, I didn't pick up on them." Hicks felt the knots start constricting tightly around his stomach again. "I . . . I . . . completely understand . . . if you blame me for . . . for this, ma'am."

"No, Dwayne, I don't blame you at all. It's . . . This is something I've never had to deal with before. I wouldn't know many of the signs that someone wants to end their life, and . . . it's even harder when that someone is away for long periods of time. Jesus, last time I saw him in person was July." Julia's composure faded swiftly, and Hicks hugged her, letting her sob in his chest.

"Unfortunately, I have dealt with this before," Hicks said, quietly. "I've seen two people die this way. Then again, they didn't let me try to help them. Ma'am, I . . . I promise, I'm not gonna let this happen to anyone, ever again."

"That's noble of you, for sure, but don't get carried away by it, or else you could wind up being the person who needs the help most of all. I don't think Adrian would want to see you in that position."

* * *

 _Question: Is making a promise he potentially can't keep a major piece in Hicks's downfall?_

 _Author's Note: I thought the final chapters of "Lost Cause" were heavy. This story is taking the cake. The only thing I'll say is that I can't wait to write the scene where Hicks meets Hudson._


	10. Chapter 10

Hicks didn't know until today that it was possible for someone to go around with such a heavy heart and still be walking as if nothing was wrong. He knew that it was written on his face that something was wrong. That's how bad he hurt.

Julia Paulson was kind enough to invite Hicks and Carlisle to her home in the D.C. suburbs to talk and have some coffee and breakfast. Considering there was nothing else to do, they spent most of the day there, talking. Hicks lost interest in the conversation rather quickly, feeling like any hope of answers was lost when he found out that not even Julia had any idea what could've driven her husband over such a dark edge.

It was around one in the afternoon when Hicks overheard a conversation between Carlisle and Julia. He paused when he heard Carlisle's voice while he was in the bathroom, and listened for a moment.

". . . I'm kinda worried about him," Carlisle was saying. "Is . . . Is grief . . . always this bad?"

"People grieve in their own ways," Julia replied. "I struggled when both my parents passed away. Luckily, I had Adrian with me, but that didn't stop me from feeling lonely and lost and empty. Now, I'm faced with the fact that I have to live alone. I have a job, but it's going to be awful coming home every night and not seeing him, not getting any messages from him. All those feelings eventually stop. It takes time, it takes a great deal of healing and accepting what happened."

"I want to help Dwayne. He's . . . There are times where he's accepting of me, and times where he pushes me away."

"Do little things for him. Housework, and that sort of stuff, especially if he's not feeling motivated to do anything. Like I said, grief effects everyone differently. He could recover soon, or he might spiral downward. Pray that doesn't happen."

* * *

The days leading up to the funeral were largely eventless, at least for Hicks. Carlisle took advantage of being in the city to explore and see the tourist attractions, while Hicks stayed in the hotel room, usually sleeping. Like the wake, he was dreading the funeral. He knew the funeral was going to be formal. He knew the procession was going to contain hundreds of officers, including people who worked with Paulson, and people who hardly knew him. The only civilians present would be Paulson's widow and son.

When that day arrived, Hicks forced himself out of bed to get every little part of the dress uniform correct. He stared at himself in the mirror, taking notice that his cheeks were beginning to hollow. The circles under his eyes had gotten darker. Everything in his body seemed to hurt. He was afraid of how he was going to feel after the funeral. It didn't matter how many times he said goodbye; the guilt and frustration were ever present, and painful, like claws being dug into every single organ within him.

A small part of him was so tired of being sad.

Before even stepping off the train near Arlington Cemetery, Hicks could see hundreds of people in uniform gathered. As he and Carlisle walked closer, they could see the hearse holding Paulson's casket. Hicks took a breath, wondering how long this would last. How long would he have to wear a mask in front of so many important people? How long until he could let his emotions burst forth again?

There was the procession, the gun salute, the eulogy, and finally, uniformed pallbearers carrying the casket of General Adrian Paulson to a freshly dug grave. Hicks held his salute as the casket came by. That was his friend in there, someone who had given him so much, in exchange for so little. Paulson had come to Hicks's rescue when the skinny recruit had second thoughts and doubts in his first weeks of boot camp. He worked with Hicks to organize his transfer papers when it was becoming clear that his current unit was horribly dysfunctional. He extended a hand of personal friendship, and talked with Hicks about so much more than his job and the weather. He taught Hicks how to be a leader, how to care about the men under his command.

After well over a year with Sergeant Trevors, Hicks felt like he had failed. That feeling of failure was still there, and he was certain that was a reason Paulson committed suicide.

He felt like cracks were beginning to appear in his mask. Tears were dripping down his cheeks as he continued to hold his salute. Everything inside his chest was aching. He watched the casket be lowered into the ground, and he felt the mask start sliding off.

That was it. The casket was buried, and Paulson was no more than a memory in the hearts of those who knew him best.

Hicks waited until most of the people gathered had left before approaching the gravesite. Like he did at the wake, he knelt in front of the headstone, and cried. His fists were clenched tightly as the tears ran down his face. The feelings of hopelessness and emptiness and anger and frustration and loneliness and sadness were overwhelming. That sensation of knots tightly coiling around his stomach had moved up to his chest. The knots began slithering around his entire chest cavity, and slowly tightened. He couldn't speak, but managed to squeak out an "I'm sorry."

 _This is all my fault._

He knew that he was going to have to return to his unit in two days.

 _I want to quit._

He knew he wasn't going to see Carlisle in person for a long time.

 _She's the only thing keeping me from wanting to jump off the roof of a building right now._

He knew it was very likely he wasn't going to hear anything about a new unit anytime soon.

 _I wish I could talk to you one more time, Paulson. I just . . . I need your guidance now._

The knots abruptly released, and Hicks sobbed hard. He didn't notice Colonel Russell and Carlisle coming up behind him, witnessing his emotional eruption.

Russell waited for the crying to subside before speaking. "Hicks, I got some good news for you."

Resting his arms on the headstone, Hicks stared ahead to the rest of the cemetery instead of making eye contact with Russell. "What?"

"Well, I got a message last night from a unit potentially interested in getting you on board with them. That was it, though. They looked at your papers and said you seem like a good fit, so I sent them the remainder of your documents, and I'm waiting to hear back."

That should have made Hicks feel better, and yet it didn't. Perhaps it was the lack of this new unit saying, "Yes, we want him right now" that wasn't dulling the painful frustration.

Carlisle knelt next to Hicks, putting her arm around his shoulder. They stayed until neither of them could stand kneeling in the freezing dirt anymore. Carlisle helped Hicks stand up, and walked him out of the cemetery, holding his arm.

Although he had done nothing throughout the morning, Hicks felt like he just finished a full-body workout. But, it wasn't the pleasant soreness of having accomplished such a feat. It was the painful soreness of trying to exercise while he was horribly sick.

He was drained, physically and emotionally. It felt impossible to move on, not when he had no answers as to why Paulson killed himself. As he sat in the hotel for the rest of the day, the familiar feeling of hopelessness kept swimming around his head. He was certain that the unit that saw his papers was never going to get back to Russell. He was certain that he was going to be stuck with his current squad until he decided to quit. Quit, and go home to bounce from job to job until he really decided enough was enough.

What a horrifying thought.

* * *

Several hours before Hicks had to get on a flight to Europe to rejoin his unit, he had a brief moment where he was thinking a little more clearly, where he was thinking about Carlisle. He felt like he had let her down, like their relationship was not going anywhere, and wouldn't go anywhere anytime soon. It felt rushed, incomplete, aimless.

And yet, he wanted to move forward. Hicks set his duffel bag down before gently shaking Carlisle awake. Her eyes slowly opened, and she smiled at him. "Hey," she said. "Getting ready to leave?"

He nodded. "I want to apologize . . . for how bad of a person I've been for the last week or so."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault, Dwayne." Carlisle sat up. "Whenever you weren't so upset, I enjoyed my time with you, and I really want to see you again sometime soon. You're . . . I . . . I hope you start to feel better soon." She was silent for a moment, looking in Hicks's eyes for some sign of hope within him. "I love you."

Hicks pondered what he just heard. He felt like Carlisle was being true to herself and her feelings, but he had no clue what to say or how to feel.

And he was running out of time.

The best he could do was leave her on a positive note. He didn't want to pile anymore guilt on himself, and he didn't want to leave Carlisle feeling like she had failed with him. Hicks kissed her, and found himself being pulled into a hug. When they pulled apart, he said, "I love you, too. I'll . . . I'll write to you, I promise."

As he left the room and closed the door, he knew that was it, and he couldn't bear it. It was another loss he had to deal with, and being so weakened from losing Paulson wasn't helping at all. He felt as if someone had slashed out another piece of his heart. He knew it was possible to see her again, but he didn't want to wait so long.

Those awful, heavy feelings lingered with him as he waited for his flight, and as he got on his flight. Why wouldn't they go away?

 _I have to shove them back down again. Don't focus on them. You're going back to your shit-fest of a unit. You can't sink to their level. You need to force yourself to put up with it, and . . . at least try to make it better._ Hicks gazed out the window, pondering how to do that.

After landing, he again contemplated quitting. He wasn't ready to go back. He needed more time.

 _I don't have a choice._ Hicks made his way out of the airport, beginning to feel sick to his stomach. Then again, that feeling had become a daily occurrence ever since Paulson died. Maybe he'd become numb to the nonsense his unit was probably doing right now.

The base was quiet when he got off the bus and walked toward the gate. Hicks entered the main complex to find Trevors, a lanky man with stringy brown hair and pointed features, sitting at his desk, flipping through a set of documents. He was looking exhausted, and significantly less tense than he usually was. "'Evening, Hicks," Trevors said.

"Good evening," Hicks replied. "Is everyone asleep?"

"Yeah. A couple more of them got sent to new units, including Jenzi."

"Good. He needs . . . He needs help, after some of the shit he's said to me." Hicks sighed. "Is there anything you need me to do?"

"No, not right now. Just go on to bed." Right before Hicks left the room, Trevors said, "I'm sorry about Paulson."

Hicks felt like someone drove a nail into his heart. _You're one of the reasons I'm failing, therefore you're one of the reasons Paulson killed himself._ "There's . . . no need to be sorry." He walked out of the room before his anger grew out of control, marching down the hall until he came to his personal quarters. After unloading his duffel bag, Hicks took a quick shower, knowing that he probably wasn't going to get any sleep that night. It was already very late, and his deepest primal desires were telling him that he needed sleep. He also needed to eat, as he had barely gotten any food in him for the last three days.

Something deeper than his primal desires was beginning to stir, though. It was so deep that not even his subconscious mind was picking up on it. The disgusting residue left behind by his suppressed emotions had seemingly slithered into this dark little corner, building on each other. Not even a psychic would be able to notice it. Hicks himself didn't notice it.

But it was there, and it was growing, faster and faster with every passing disappointment. It was gaining control of every repressed emotion inside him. It was shutting out his basic need for food, for water, for sleep.

He lay in bed, knowing just about anything was possible tomorrow. He knew he was going to have to call back what little leadership skills he had in order to keep his men under control. He knew he was going to have to be that calm center.

But, how long was he going to remain calm?

* * *

Hicks awoke from a night of bad dreams. He sat up in bed, half-expecting to be home, or in a hotel room. Looking around, he saw he was in his dingy private quarters on base. For a moment, he wondered if the last two weeks had been one long horrible dream. He wondered if he had been in cryosleep, given how vivid and detailed and long that dream felt.

As he got up and got dressed, he knew it hadn't been a dream.

Hicks went out to the mess hall, finding a smaller unit sitting at the table. It was definitely quieter, but that didn't mean all the problems had disappeared. He sat down, not saying anything and observing what was going on.

Trevors walked into the room, holding a sheet of paper. "Hicks, when you were gone, were you told that there's . . . another unit interested in you?"

"Yeah. Has there been any new developments on that?" _He wouldn't know. He never knows._

"No. Just . . . wondering if you knew that."

"Yes, I'm aware. Hoping they call back and say, 'Yes, we want you,' soon."

"You'd think he'd get better treatment because he's a corporal," someone at the end of the table muttered. "Surprised his friend that died didn't get him anywhere."

The room went silent, and Hicks felt a slight twinge in his stomach. The twinge revealed itself to be another knot, and it tightened rapidly while rising into his chest. Finally, it snapped.

In a split second, the soldier that spoke had been lifted by his shirt, and thrown from his seat to the floor. He lay there in shock for several seconds, staring up at Hicks. "You're not supposed to do that, sir-"

" _I don't want to hear a word about Paulson outta anyone's mouth! Do you understand?!_ " Hicks shouted.

The silence continued, save for everyone's breathing. Trevors had retreated into the hallway, mumbling, "Jesus Christ," to himself.

Hicks glanced around the table, eyes blazing with pent-up rage. The fact that no one was arguing, no one was _moving_ was . . . oddly satisfying. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. _I can do this. I can control them until I finally leave. Even if that never happens, I can keep them in line._ He breathed. "I'm not dealing with anyone's bullshit anymore. I'm not gonna submit to any of you anymore. All the dysfunction? It stops here, right now."

A few of the Marines around the table gave each other fearful looks. This was definitely not the Hicks they knew, not anymore. And Trevors wasn't going to stop him.

The day progressed, as did Hicks's wrath. After breakfast, he dragged his remaining Marines outside, into the bitter cold. He drilled them until lunch, he kept them in the rifle range until dinner, and the hours until lights-out were spent reciting basic rules.

Still, the fire within Hicks wasn't being extinguished. His mind became locked in something awful. He felt motivated, for once, to push himself harder, to push his men harder. Anything was possible, now. He could shape these pathetic excuses for human beings into soldiers. Not to mention, they didn't trust him with their personal problems; why start now? It was pointless.

Hicks spent the night rearranging his quarters, making it as neat and spotless as he had kept his rack in boot camp. He went out into the hallway at around midnight, and shouted, " _Everyone up! I wanna see you out in this hallway, fully dressed, RIGHT NOW!_ "

Five minutes later, the Marines emerged from their rooms, looking at Hicks with confused expressions.

"Face forward, eyes straight!"

They stood at attention.

Hicks paced down the hall, giving dirty looks to each man. "I want this fucking hallway mopped, and I want the fucking walls, doors, and hinges scrubbed. You got that? When you're done with that, you're gonna clean your rooms. I don't wanna see anything out of place, or wrinkled, or dirty. Got it? No one is gonna fucking sleep until I say so! We're only as good as how clean we are, now _get to it!_ "

The hours slowly ticked by as the skeletal squadron swabbed the deck and sprayed disinfectants on the walls and doors. At two, someone spoke up, "Corporal, is there something wrong? This is bordering on cruel."

Hicks approached the man, who turned back to his cleaning. Not buying it, Hicks yanked him up, hissing, "'Cruel' was not doing this with you earlier. We wouldn't be the fucked-up mess we are if you people were disciplined!" He backhanded the man across the face. "You're all gonna stand outside your rooms for ten minutes when you're done!"

"This man's as insane as fucking Jenzi!" another Marine yelled. That earned him a round of personal insults from Hicks, as well as having to stand outside his room with no sweater.

"Bloody hell! Trevors is incompetent, and Hicks is a psychopath!" someone else snapped.

In short, nobody slept that night. Not a soul.

* * *

 _Question: How would the response to Hicks's breakdown be different if it happened with Drake's unit?_


	11. Chapter 11

The days slowly passed by. Hicks wasn't keeping track of them. He was focused on this burst of energy, this newfound motivation to make things better than they were before. If it meant berating someone in front of everyone else, so be it, especially if it was someone who had berated him in the past. He created wholly unrealistic schedules, certain that such routines would make his Marines strive to be better. The late nights and early, early mornings were nightmares. It became common to hear people crying in the bathroom.

A week later, it stopped entirely.

The Marines came out of their rooms at four AM, expecting to see Hicks down at the end of the hallway. They saw no one. Instead, they heard sobbing. One man bravely marched down to Hicks's quarters, and found the door was locked. The sobbing was coming from Hicks himself.

Hours went by, and he didn't emerge.

At one point during the night, something within Hicks decided to crash. The energy was gone in less than a heartbeat. When he tried to think about it, all he found was a nasty blur where that spot in his memories was supposed to be. Something had happened. Something really bad had happened.

The heavy emotions that had plagued him since Paulson's death had come back, punishing him for what he had done when his energy levels were high. He knew in his heart he had done something terrible, but what? All he knew was that it was so bad that he couldn't go out there and face his men.

 _All I've done is further proved that I am untrustworthy. I killed Paulson. I killed the two Marines. I bet others have killed themselves in the last few days._ Hicks glanced up at the ceiling, and then around his room. He noticed how neat and perfect everything was. Gradually, that blur began to steadily clear. It was still a blur, but he could still see the hideous shape of what he'd become.

Naturally, Hicks's thoughts turned to Paulson. What would he think of all this? He'd be disappointed, no doubt. Embarrassed, maybe. Definitely hurt. Shocked.

Picturing Paulson disappointed sent a cold spear through Hicks's heart. _What have I done?_ he thought. _I'm a monster._ Tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He felt horribly nauseated. He felt like he had shattered his own life. He ruined himself, and was an undeniable failure.

There was no going back. He couldn't change anything. How was he going to live with this?

* * *

It didn't take very long for newly-promoted General Russell to find out what was going on, and say enough was enough. His intervening came after hearing from three Marines leaving the unit that Hicks had lost his mind, and was becoming a lunatic. Part of Russell wondered if this was bitterness from having been in such a dysfunctional unit, but he decided it was best to have a look at the skeletal remains of the squad.

Almost as soon as Russell entered the base, he knew things were definitely going bad. The normal process for getting this unit disbanded was going too slow. He stepped into Trevors's office without knocking, saying, "I want to see Hicks. Right now."

"General, sir-" Trevors stood up, knocking his chair backward, and saluted, "Hicks is likely in his quarters, sir."

"Go get him." Russell watched as Trevors stumbled out of the room, and jogged down the hall to Hicks's quarters. A second later, Russell followed, and saw just how badly grief had ravaged the corporal.

Hicks was unshaven and skinny. When his depression struck, he no longer cared about the appearance of himself or his living space, a stark contrast to what occurred when he felt maniacal. He looked like he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. Hell, he looked like someone had sucked the vitality right out of him.

Russell glared at Trevors. "Alright, what's going on?"

Trevors looked in the room. "Sir, he's been . . . he's been . . . having very severe mood swings the last month or so-"

"'Month.' This has been going on for a month. And you said nothing?"

"Sir-"

"No. You are the most incompetent Marine I've ever had the fucking pleasure of staring at in the eye. Hell, I don't even want to look you in the eye anymore. I don't even want to waste the Goddamn money to send you back in training. Why didn't you say anything?"

"He was an absolute mess at times, sir. He . . . He controlled everything. Th-There was nothing-"

"There's a lot you could've done, and you didn't do a Goddamn thing. Who was your drill instructor in boot camp? I'm gonna kick their ass for letting you graduate. Next, I'm kicking your recruiter's ass for signing your papers." Russell's face was as red as his hair. He pointed at Trevors. "I want you to open that fucking phonebook, and call Doctor Ranelli. Right now. _Move it!_ "

Hicks glanced toward the doorway. He sat up in bed, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. "Am I in trouble?" he rasped.

Russell leaned against the doorway. "No. You're not in trouble."

"I've been a terrible soldier, sir." Hicks looked down at his lap. "I have such a blurry memory of what happened . . . but . . . I know I was . . . I've hurt people."

"Well, you're not in trouble. You're gonna get some help before this gets even worse. Paulson wouldn't want to see this go on." Russell folded his arms over his chest. "Jesus Christ, I should've told you to just stay home until someone confirmed that they want you in their unit. Now look; you went nuts, son. Anyone would. Doesn't help that someone really close to you died and you're not done grieving. It's my fault, really."

"Sir, why do I feel like it's my fault Paulson's gone?"

"Could be that no one's ever really found out why he did it. Not having answers leads your mind to assume the worst. I'm not convinced it was anything you did. I think Paulson may've had his own personal problems that he was really ashamed to tell you or his wife or son about. Maybe he didn't want any of you finding out and figured it was best you never knew."

"Carlisle suggested the same thing."

There was silence before Russell found a good response. "You got close to her, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hey, you're both outta boot camp, and you're mature adults. Anyway, was she helpful at all to you?"

"Sometimes. Most of the time, I pushed her away, and just . . . didn't want anyone's help. At the same time, I knew I had feelings for her, and yet . . . I don't . . . I just-"

"Look, keep all that in the back of your mind, and save it for the therapist, OK? I've got a lot of asses to kick, and I've got some good news. I got a call from a Sergeant Apone earlier this morning about taking you into his unit. In a couple of days, you're gonna be sent to a transfer barracks to wait for your plane tickets, which shouldn't take more than three days. You'll probably start talking with the doc by then, and he'll be traveling with you to your new unit. Sound good?"

Hicks nodded, but the good feelings weren't hitting him at all.

"The important thing is that you're getting out of here. I'm sure Paulson would be proud to see you off and improving your career."

* * *

It was shortly after ten AM the next day when Hicks got to meet Dr. Ranelli for the first time. He sat upright in a chair in a small, somewhat cramped office near sick bay, waiting for the doctor to arrive. Hicks was expecting an officer, and stood up when the door opened. He frowned when he saw it was a short, civilian man in a blue cardigan, carrying a briefcase and an empty coffee mug. "Are you . . . Doctor Ranelli?"

"Yes, I am. Sit." Ranelli got behind the desk, and turned in his chair to a large cupboard. He opened it to reveal a small coffeemaker. "You must be-" He opened his briefcase, taking out a file, "Corporal Hicks."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Give me one minute while I prepare this. I trust you've had some breakfast?"

"I haven't been very hungry the last few days."

"Still. You should be eating a little something three times a day. Things like that are crucial in keeping your mind healthy."

Hicks looked down at the file, seeing his name and information stamped across a sheet. There were a series of checkboxes with disorders listed by them. A blue X had been made next to "Bipolar II Disorder." He looked at Ranelli. "Is this an official diagnosis?"

"When I send it out, yes. Your sergeant described your symptoms to me over the phone. I really haven't dealt that much with either variation of bipolar disorder, but from my knowledge, you are, thankfully, suffering from the less severe form." Ranelli faced Hicks. "However, from what I've gathered on you, it didn't take a lot for me to draw the lines between your illness and the death of a very dear friend. Getting to the root of your problem was easy, though the cause of any and all depressive disorders is still unclear. In this case, it makes sense that the combination of grief and your terrible work environment led to this . . . this snapping within your mind."

Hicks nodded, suddenly feeling as though he might cry.

"I definitely want to talk to you quite a bit before we start delving into the right treatment plan for you. The question I'd like to start the day off is 'how are you feeling right now?' Physically. Emotionally. Anything."

"Well, I . . . I . . . I feel hopeless. I feel sick. I'm sad and angry and . . . well, for the last month, I constantly have this feeling that someone's put ropes around my ribcage and my stomach and they pull really tightly whenever I feel upset. I feel guilty. I feel like I'm the reason Paulson died."

"Believe it or not, that's a normal thing to feel when you grieve. Typically, it's called 'survivor's guilt.' It's definitely not easy to pull yourself out of, and it takes more than just someone telling you it wasn't your fault. You need to go back, dig within your memories, and re-analyze the event. Put all the little puzzle pieces together, and show yourself that there really wasn't anything you could've done to prevent it."

"That's the problem. No one knows why Paulson killed himself. There's no . . . There's no sound reasoning. He didn't leave any hints to anyone."

"Most of the time, there are hints. They may not be very clear, but they're there. It will require a lot of digging into his personal records, and I'm of the belief that it's too soon after his death to start finding those answers."

"If you're right, then I'm too stupid to have seen them."

Ranelli shook his head. "People who are dead-set on taking their own lives go to great lengths to make sure no one is aware of it. Not to mention, I'm sure there are plenty of things you didn't see, simply because you weren't with Paulson at the time. Like I said, this is something that we will deal with over time. When it comes to improving your mental health, that is not something you deal with overnight. It is a long and sometimes difficult process that shouldn't be rushed. It requires patience, and learning quite a bit about yourself, who you are and what you need to change."

Hicks sighed. "I already know a lot about what I need to change. I just don't know how to go through with it."

"You'll learn, you'll learn. Don't panic. Most people don't entirely know what they need to change, and it takes awhile for them to see it. Out of curiosity, what is it that you know you need to change?"

"I . . . suppress my emotions. When I feel like I need to be in control of a situation, I force everything I'm feeling down my throat, and I try to ignore it. Even when I'm just talking to people, normally, I . . . I refuse to show them what I'm actually feeling."

"If I may ask, based on some of your documents, are you planning on staying with the Marines for an extended period of time?"

"Yeah. I even have 'lifer' stenciled on the back of my armor."

"That explains quite a bit. Could be . . . you're a bit of a workaholic, and your bearing has bled into your personal life. When you're being inspected or interacting with your superiors, you generally do not show any form of emotion whatsoever. Now, I know plenty of Marines who have a good balance with their work life and civilian life, which begs the question of 'what is life like for you when you go home?'"

"Very quiet . . . and a little lonely."

"So, when you are in a private environment, you continue to keep your emotions tucked away in your subconscious."

"Yeah."

"Do you feel like you know how to express your emotions in a healthy way?"

"No. At times, I . . . feel like people won't . . . really understand, like they won't get the message that I'm sad or angry or frustrated or tired. Sometimes, I feel like I have to burst into tears to get my feelings across, but I don't want to just start bawling in public, so I just hold it all in."

"Is it . . . common for people to misinterpret how you feel, or do you truly believe you don't know how to express yourself?"

"I don't know how to express myself. I-I really don't. I just . . . I don't . . ." Hicks gave up, and put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. This is all part of getting better. Plus-" Ranelli slid a tissue box toward Hicks, "don't be ashamed of crying in here. It's perfectly acceptable."

"I should be more in control-"

"No. Relax. That kind of thinking just digs you deeper and deeper into this little hole you've gotten yourself into. Your emotions are like wild horses. You can't force them to do what you want. It takes time and patience. Once you learn and accept how they effect you, then you can attempt to tame them, and balance them out in life."

Part of Hicks felt like he had been backed into a corner. Accepting this man's help was the only way to get out of that corner. What all did he have to lose? _My career, my health, a girlfriend. I could lose all of that if I don't get help._ He didn't want to go home a failure. A mentally ill, broken failure.

* * *

 _Question: Compared to Drake, how willing is Hicks to accept help?_

 _Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter is a little late, and a little short. Moving to the climax of the story (Hicks completely breaking down) and then to the falling action (Hicks receiving help and turning into the person we know in the Drake storyline and "Aliens") was challenging. I feel like it moved by too quickly, especially since the buildup was really slow.  
_

 _Although this book isn't over yet, I want to say that I'm really enjoying working on it. It's a heart-wrenching piece of pure person-vs.-self conflict. I will admit that I miss the guest readers that frequented my earlier works. Your feedback was always enjoyable to read, and it was nice that there were a few people out there who kept up-to-date on the series. (Your comments are very nice as well, Serene Fairy. I'm glad you're enjoying this.)  
_

 _I'm going to miss working with Hicks as the protagonist. I liked exploring his character and building upon what we already have. To be honest, thought, it's tempting to write a post-"Aliens" story that follows a similar formula._


	12. Chapter 12

The best news Hicks had heard in a very long time was that he would be with his new unit in exactly one week on the day he arrived at the transfer barracks. When he wasn't with Dr. Ranelli, he was in a large room lined with bunk beds, sitting and doing nothing for the majority of the day with a hundred other Marines, also waiting to go to new units.

If Hicks hadn't used up all his personal days for that month, he would've gone home until it was time go to his new squadron. The transfer barracks were boring, despite taking on small responsibilities like laundry and managing people's appointments. When there was nothing to be done, he sat by his rack, reading or writing the exercises he had to do for therapy.

He still had to deal with an overwhelming loneliness. A few days after arriving, he set down the journal containing his exercises, and tore out a blank sheet.

" _Dear Paige, I hope you're doing OK. I know you were probably expecting to hear from me a lot sooner, but a few things came up that I should probably explain. When I returned to my unit, I snapped. Something was really wrong; I suddenly felt like I had a lot of energy, and I basically took over what was left of the unit. I kept them up late, and I set standards that were just too high on them. I became something I'm not, and it was horrible. Then, I swung back to being depressed. I blamed myself for every death I've ever had to witness, especially Paulson's.  
_

" _This went on for a month. That's why you didn't hear from me, even though I should've wrote you as soon as I got back. I needed help, and I was so far gone that I couldn't get it myself. It took General Russell coming to base to see what was going on for me to actually get the help I needed. If he just ignored us, God only knows where I'd be now._

" _The good news is that I'm getting help, and I'm starting to feel better. The best news is that I'm going to my unit in a few days. I don't know the sergeant, but I've heard he's a lot more competent than Trevors-well, anyone's more competent than Trevors. I know he's getting the extra training he needs, and I hope he improves as a Marine. He fucked up a lot, but I have no ill will towards him. Maybe our paths will cross again, and he'll be a better man. Maybe we'll be able to get along as human beings.  
_

" _I still have a long road ahead of me in terms of recovering from my grief and depression. I'd definitely prefer talking to you face-to-face, but I know that's not possible right now. Despite that, I think it's important we start talking about our feelings for each other. We got off to a bit of a rough start, and I'd like to pursue a much better relationship. That is, if you want to. I can understand if you don't want to keep seeing me romantically; I've proven that it's difficult for me to process my own emotions, and that's something very frustrating to you. It's led to various other problems that I'm aware of and want to change. I doubt I'm going to change completely. Some flaws are around for life. I would hope that doesn't prevent us from enjoying each other's company, but, as I mentioned, I understand if you feel like we're not meant to be together.  
_

" _I hope we can get together and talk soon. Love, Dwayne._ "

Unsure if he had said everything he wanted to say, Hicks folded up the paper to put it in an envelope. He knew he was going to think of something long after he sent it out, so he held onto it, not sealing the envelope, just in case. When the mail officer came around that evening, nothing new had sprung to mind, so Hicks sealed the envelope, and sent it off.

* * *

The day before Hicks headed out to his new squadron, he received a reply from Carlisle. He was excited and nervous at the same time, and decided to sit where none of the other Marines could see him. He realized he was holding his breath as he opened the envelope, which he noticed smelled like Carlisle's lotion. Pausing, he sniffed the paper, and felt another weight of loneliness drop into his heart. His insides were so battered from the grieving and depression, and that made the drop of the lonely weight more painful than it should have been. He could only hope that this was a good letter.

" _Dear Dwayne, It didn't bother me at all that you were late in replying. I was busy with my own unit, and I figured you were busy with yours. I'm fine, thanks for asking, but I've been worried about you. Even more so when I got your letter.  
_

" _The simplest thing I can say is that I had a hard time figuring out a response to you. I wasn't very surprised to learn that you completely broke down upon returning to base. In all honesty, I should've suspected something was wrong, beyond your grieving. I wished I could've done something for you. If anything, I'm glad you're getting help. You need it.  
_

" _When it comes to us, I don't have a doubt in my mind that we can pursue a better relationship. I miss you as well, and I think about you a lot. I know things would be better if we were able to see each other regularly, but, for now, I'm OK with communicating by mail and video-calling and whatnot. I happen to believe that if we're really meant for each other, some miracle will occur where we'll be able to be with each other more often. However, I know you're on board with the Marines for life. I can understand you putting your career ahead, but I hope you can find time for your personal life.  
_

" _I hope your grief counseling or therapy goes well for you. You deserve happiness. I love you. Hugs and kisses, Paige._ "

The only thing that pained Hicks was the fact that the letter was short. He gave a quiet sigh, and opened his rack to place the letter alongside his other personal items. He stared at it for a few minutes, until someone came over, saying, "Time for your appointment, Hicks."

After grabbing his jacket, Hicks followed an escort down to sick bay, and was left by Ranelli's temporary office and quarters. The therapist let him in, and gestured for him to have a seat and some white hot chocolate sprinkled with nutmeg.

"Tomorrow's the big day, huh?" Ranelli said, sitting behind his desk.

Hicks nodded. "Been waiting too long for this. Any excitement I should have . . . don't know where it went."

"That happens. When you wait too long, it's difficult to feel that kind of happy excitement because you're in disbelief that it's actually happening. Like I mentioned, I'm traveling with you."

"Does this . . . Sergeant Apone know about this?"

"Of course he does. He was notified as soon as you were made a patient of mine."

"And he's OK with it?"

"Well, he has to be. This is USCM protocol. Anyway, he does understand, and he's willing to give you all the time you need to settle in."

"Liking the sound of this new squad already."

"Good. Now, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Kinda tired. I got a letter from my girlfriend. A good letter, so, I'm somewhat happy. I just wish I could see her more often."

"This was the young lady you were telling me about a few days ago, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah. I'm glad things are continuing to work out between you two."

"Thanks. I . . . managed to eat a little more during breakfast. I slept through the night. Hell, I know I gotta get up at four in the morning to fly out to New York, but, I'm OK with that. Overall, I just feel . . . I . . . don't know."

"You told me you were tired, and then said you slept through the night. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

"Honestly, I'm very lonely. I usually function pretty good on my own."

Ranelli nodded. "Have you made any attempt to talk to anyone here?"

"No. There's . . . There's no point when they end up leaving the next day. And everyone asks why they're in transfer; I don't want to tell people my situation."

"You're leaving tomorrow anyway. This is something we'll be able to work on over time." Ranelli glanced at his clipboard. "How was your mood yesterday, after your session?"

"Up and down, but mostly down. There were times where I wanted to force myself to be more energetic, because there was stuff to be done around the compartment, but . . . something was holding it back, like I knew that any burst of energy would turn me into a monster again."

"That is . . . both a good thing and a bad thing. One, you're aware of your extreme mood swings and don't wish them to occur. That's good. The bad is that holding such emotions back will result in them coming back rather forcefully, at a time you least expect. Emotions don't disappear or dissolve. They need somewhere to go, and the only place they can go is out. You need a productive way to deal with the 'manic' side of your depression."

"How do I do that if I'm not aware that I'm swinging into that side?"

"One of the problems, Hicks, is that you've suppressed your emotions over an extended period of time. These extreme mood swings are your subconscious way of releasing them, and getting them out, similar to draining an infection. When you're not depressed or in mania, do something that exercises different parts of your brain-draw, write, paint, work out, do a crossword or word search, things like that. Interacting with people also helps. It gives you an outlet to express yourself without exploding or breaking down. Little things like that will help in stabilizing your moods." Ranelli smiled. "I hope that you find those outlets in your new unit."

* * *

When Hicks awoke at the early hour in the morning to be driven down to the airport, he thought about the morning when he headed out to Paris for the brunch with Paulson. Both of these mornings were cold, and dark, and just too damn early.

Hicks took his jacket off the hook on the side of the rack, and glanced over at some of the other Marines who were also getting ready to leave. He zipped up his jacket, and, for a brief moment, he saw himself in his bedroom, in his house, back in Alabama.

Back when everything was relatively normal. Back when Paulson was still alive.

Putting his duffel bag over his shoulder, Hicks sighed quietly, following the rest of the Marines out to the hallway. He noticed Ranelli among them, wearing a heavy tan coat and a golf cap, and carrying a large briefcase.

"Sit down, bus'll be here in about ten minutes," a sergeant ordered.

Hicks sat with the others on a long bench out in the hallway. He opened his wallet, making sure he had his important information, as he did when he was going to Paris. After putting his wallet away, he looked down at his scarf, and began stroking the tassels. He noticed that despite how many times he toyed with it, the scarf was still in good condition. _Maybe I'm just that gentle,_ he thought.

On the bus, Hicks stared out the window, hoping that this would be the start of a much better journey. He wondered if Paulson was looking after him, and glanced at Ranelli. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Ranelli replied.

"How do you know . . . when someone who's passed on . . . is watching you?"

"That depends on the individual. You believe in guardian angels?"

"Never really thought about it before."

"I'd say thoughts like this are a step in the right direction for your grief. Of course, you still miss Paulson, and you still wish he was around. But, you're starting to accept what happened, and you're thinking about it in a different light. You're beginning to hope that he's watching you and guiding you in the right direction. I think that's a sign that, deep down, you know that his death wasn't your fault. After all, if you were responsible, his spirit wouldn't want anything to do with you."

Hicks nodded. "I still feel like I was responsible in some way, though."

"Let that feeling exist. In time, you'll come to terms with it."

* * *

Hicks jolted awake when the plane landed in New York City. Much like the flight to Paris, he had slept the whole way. That wasn't a surprise. He was often lulled by the shaking of moving vehicles.

Still, the same thing had happened when he flew to Paris.

As he walked through the airport with Ranelli, he wished that Carlisle was with him. He wanted to hold her close as they walked, and feel the joy of that intimate togetherness. As soon as he got to his new base, he would write to her. He would ask to go to a call center and video-chat with her.

It was late in the afternoon when the bus pulled into the base. Hicks knew this was it; all he could do was hope and pray this unit was better than his old one. With his bag over his shoulder, he walked through the gates, and through the main doors. He could hear laughing, which was a good sign to him. Despite that, he was overcome with shyness.

A stern-looking man with a cigar in his mouth strolled over to him, and held out his hand. "Corporal Hicks? I'm Sergeant Apone. Good to have you with us."

"Thanks," Hicks replied. "I . . . I-"

"Don't worry too much. Just go get settled in, and meet the guys and gals here. They're busy watching our resident jackass catch food in his mouth."

That made Hicks genuinely curious about what life was like here. Apone's "resident jackass" didn't sound like an insult, but more like casual banter. In Hicks's mind, that was an even better sign.

After placing his duffel bag in his new room, he headed to the lounge, where the entirety of the unit was watching a young guy with messy dark-brown hair and a soul patch under his lip catch peanuts in his mouth.

"How many does he got, Frost?" someone asked.

"This is number thirty, Spunk," Frost replied, before throwing another peanut. "New record if he gets it."

Hicks walked in, folding his arms over his chest. His scarf was still around his neck, and he was holding the tassels tightly. _There's no need to be shy. They look like they're good guys._

"Jesus Christ, Hudson, you're drooling all over the table," a young woman with short hair laughed.

They paused when they saw the newcomer from the corner of their eyes. Hicks felt his face grow warm when they all stared at him, and cursed himself for not having . . . a less awkward and shy presence.

"Uh-oh, they finally got us a new corporal," Frost said. "You guys better stop horsing around and give him your attention."

Hudson, the man with the peanuts in his mouth, started chewing them, and washed them down with a gulp of soda. "I got this, man," he said, standing up.

Hicks knew that saying something and asserting his authority was necessary here, but he couldn't find the right thing to say without coming off as an ass. He froze when he noticed Hudson was about to give him a big ol' bear-hug, but before he could hold up his hands and tell him to back off, Apone walked in, and said, "Hudson, siddown and behave." He looked around the room, nodding at how quiet everyone got. "Alright, people, we got our new corporal today. Say 'hello' to Corporal Hicks, and I expect each and every one of you to show him the same respect you show me, got it?"

"Yes, sir," the Marines replied.

"Now, Hicks has been going through a couple of personal issues lately, so just leave him alone for a few days, and don't be dickheads. That means you, Hudson."

"I didn't do anything, man," Hudson whined.

"I'm just saying, be pleasant until Hicks gets settled in. Then we can both share the responsibility of babysitting you."

"Is he normally a problem?" Hicks asked, nervously.

"No. He's just a little goofy at times. Overall, he's harmless."

"OK." Hicks didn't feel like diving into getting to know everyone just yet. "I'll just . . . sit for a little."

"Do whatever. Evening chow's in a half-hour." Apone left the lounge, and Hicks sat on a couch, away from everyone else. He glanced over at the others, who had transitioned to a card game.

 _I definitely wasn't expecting this. No one's arguing or mad at each other. Everyone seems to know each other and respect each other. Apone seems pretty competent and doesn't seem angry with anyone. This is the polar opposite of what I was just in. I don't know how to act or respond._ Hicks sat criss-cross on the couch, pulling his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.

Not too long after putting his lighter back, he heard someone approach him, and looked up to see Hudson. "Hey, why don't you sit with us, man? We got a spot for you."

"Why?" Hicks asked.

"'Why?'" Hudson snorted. "Why not, man? You look a little lonely, that's all." He gave Hicks a genuine smile before patting his shoulder. "Up to you, though." He then held out a wrapped chocolate bar. "Want one?"

Without a word, Hicks took it, and Hudson left him alone. _What do I have to lose? I should go over there. It would help me feel better._ Sighing, Hicks stood up, and walked over to the couch where everyone else was sitting. He saw the open space next to Hudson, and sat down.

It didn't take a lot of time for the smiles and laughter to become infectious. Of course there was small talk, but Hicks could deal with it. It was too soon, and there were too many people around for him to have a "deep" conversation with anyone.

He'd save those for Carlisle.

That night, he let his mind slow down. His thoughts were still wandering in their own directions, but it was like they were on leashes; they wouldn't get very far from the center of his mind. He didn't quite feel as if this place was home, yet. Hopefully, this introduction and warmth would persist.

Eventually, the thoughts all crawled back to the center, and he managed to fall into a deep and restful sleep.

* * *

This unit was far more tight-knit than Hicks's previous one. Its size granted him the opportunity to talk with everyone individually at some point, and they were incredible in combat.

As for his relationship with Carlisle, they didn't talk much starting six months after he arrived at his new squad, because Carlisle's unit was sent off-planet. He missed her even more, though his new teammates tried to buck him up. What made matters worse was that he had no clue when she returned, or if she was even alive.

That put a dent in his recovery. The feeling of just _not knowing_ re-awakened his horrid depression. Again, he felt the need to be perfect, to get everything into shape. Apone was having none of that, and kept Hicks from spiraling out of control.

Two years passed without hearing back from Carlisle. He wrote her two letters, and stopped, afraid that he was one of the reasons she wasn't responding. One afternoon, he looked out in the hallway to see Apone receiving two new Marines, both smartgunners fresh out of training, and, according to their documents, fresh out of prison.

Hicks studied them. The female, a young Latina named Vasquez, did what she was told without question, and she seemed like she was keeping a lot of her thoughts and feelings to herself. The male, a tall blond named Drake, was prone to griping; he muttered to himself when it came to doing things he didn't want to do. He refused to interact with anyone, and preferred to be alone when he didn't have to work with everyone else. He'd talk to Vasquez, and Hicks suspected that was because they were in the same prison and boot camp division.

Some of the others joked that they were probably in a romantic relationship. _If they are, good for them,_ Hicks thought. _God only knows where my romantic relationship went._

Hicks observed them both closely, namely Drake. He always seemed upset about something. It wasn't until a month had gone by when Hicks worked up the courage to approach Drake and try to talk to him. Not surprisingly, Drake pushed Hicks away.

 _I see a lot of myself in him. If that's true, he's not going to ask for anyone's help until it's blatantly obvious he needs it._ Hicks let him go, and continued to watch, seeing so many of the same behaviors he remembered experiencing himself when he was in Trevors's unit. There were differences, sure, but that difficulty in expressing emotions was all-too-similar. All Hicks could was pray Drake didn't experience some kind of traumatic event and suffer for months afterward.

Two years later, he did.

* * *

 _Question: If Hicks had taken the time to look back on his past right after Drake's first experience with the silver flower, how would things be a little different?_

 _Author's Note: I absolutely loved working on this emotional roller coaster of a story, and I'm going to miss working with Hicks as the protagonist.  
_

 _In all honesty, I'm not sure what to do in terms of Hicks's relationship with Carlisle. I'm certainly not denying his chemistry with Ripley, though I thought that aspect of the movie was ambiguous to the viewer. I can understand why fans think they make a great couple, and I'm not against working with it in the future. I just don't see Hicks as someone who'd cheat (if I decided to have him stay with Carlisle). There'd have to be something down the road, prior to "Aliens," where they break up. Or, this could be some kind of separate timeline where the chemistry between Hicks and Ripley is more of a "just friends" thing. Kinda like Drake and Miranda with significantly less awkwardness. I'm open to ideas as to how to tie all the knots together and keep this fluid.  
_

 _Anyways, next up-I gave in and decided to start brainstorming a Hudson-centric story. He's gonna be a fun protagonist for sure. Look for that after the next chapter of "Perpetual Storm" is posted. Happy reading - Cat._


End file.
